


sad is the world when the wives are made to beg

by unwindmyself



Category: Agent Carter (TV), Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Mad Max: Fury Road, Apocalypse, Battle, Canon-Typical Lack Of Bodily Agency, Canon-Typical Violence, Car Chases, Character Death, Cuddling & Snuggling, Danger, Developing Relationship, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Evil Grant Ward, Exposition, F/F, Female-Centric, First Meetings, First Time, Gen, Goodbyes, Growing Up, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Brainwashing, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Isolation, Oral History, Pre-Femslash, Prophetic Visions, Revelations, Romantic Friendship, Self-Harm, Serious Injuries, Surprise Friendship, Survival, girls protecting girls
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-19
Updated: 2016-11-10
Packaged: 2018-06-09 09:43:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 26
Words: 69,887
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6900859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unwindmyself/pseuds/unwindmyself
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's left of the world belongs to only a few, the cruelest most powerful robber barons; slowly, the Immortan's Wives are learning that in truth they belong to nobody but themselves and each other.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. and where's the light when the power's down?

**Author's Note:**

> I know this isn't the first AU of its kind, but once I [played in this sandbox](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5882449/chapters/14018812) I couldn't get it out of my head.
> 
> A blanket warning: given the nature of _Fury Road_ canon, this story is pretty directly about survivors of sexual (and emotional, and physical, and every kind of) abuse. I will not write the scenes of said abuse, nor will I write explicit discussions of it, but it will be discussed and it will be hinted at and it will be happening off-screen. This is not because I think it's a super fun idea to add more rape into stories, but because the healing and self-rescuing aspects of that canon, as well as the potential for dynamic between the women, are worth exploring and especially for these girls.
> 
> There are kind of analogues and there kind of aren't. It's kind of like the other _Fury Road_ AUs floating around but it kind of isn't. This just had to happen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Precious Jemma is brought up in the Vault and Daisy pure-and-sweet is brought to it, and without knowing they are made the new Immortan's first wives.

Precious Jemma knows nothing but the Vault for true.

Her very first memory is of the night sky, distant through the small skylight in the roof, and of Miss Rose’s voice telling stories about the stars. In the memory, she’s very young and she’s laid out on her back on a bed in the center of the room, and as soon as Miss Rose pauses, she asks, “What happened to me?”

She knows their names, she understands everything they’re talking about, she even knows that she’s ten-and-some years old (nobody ever knows for exact sure anymore), and she knows that it’s odd that she doesn’t know how she got from wherever she was to here or what came before.

“Small mercy,” sighs Miss Rose instead of really answering. She brushes Jemma’s hair from her face and makes a soft noise in the back of her throat.

“Why is that?” Jemma asks.

Miss Rose grimaces, reaching to gently adjust the cotton and plastic around Jemma’s waist. The brace. She knows that’s what it’s called. “When we get you on your feet, you’ll see,” she says. “You won’t even want to remember this small pain you’re in now.”

This is wrong, and even a bit empty-headed Jemma knows this. She would rather remember than not.

But Miss Rose is trying to be sweet to her, so she nods. “There’s something wrong with me, isn’t there?” she asks plaintively.

“Nothing wrong with you, precious,” Miss Rose says. “Just with some of your bones. Your spine.”

“What keeps me upright,” Jemma says, pleased that she can say this confidently. She knows all of these words, but she doesn’t know how she learned them. It’s odd.

Miss Rose nods, and she’s just as proud. “Exactly that,” she says. “When you were smaller, your spine was twisted, not straight like it should be.”

“But now it’s fixed,” Jemma murmurs.

“It will be,” Miss Rose promises. “But till we’re told, you’ve got to stay still and heal.”

Jemma wants to ask why, what she’s healing for, but she doesn’t.

 

* * *

 

Once she’s better (the moon goes through its cycle three times and she doesn’t feel she could stay on her back any longer) she explores.

She learns every crevice and cranny of the Vault, she reads every book on Miss Rose’s shelves.

She falls asleep hearing Miss Rose’s even breath, rising-falling-rising-falling.

She hears Miss Rose’s stories of the world that used to be, and when the stories and the books contradict each other - on things like the nature of women, or that of sin, perhaps, which is always more clear-cut in the books - she learns to listen to Miss Rose’s opinion above all. (The books aren’t all Miss Rose’s. She makes that clear with the way she frowns at them. They’re things that have been approved to read, most of them, by some sinister-or-not outside force, but a few of them actually teach Jemma true things, too. She has never touched a scalpel, but she knows that if she had to, for some odd reason, she could perform surgeries, and she has never been faced with poisons but she knows how to recognize them.)

Their little life, Jemma knows, is limited, but everything outside is dead, isn’t it? Why else would they be here? It’s only her and her not-mother and whatever specters keep them fed and tended without showing their faces.

She can’t see anything to hope for, and she knows that ought to make her sad, but it’s so much the way of things that she’s not truly bothered. She’s just a bit numb.

 

* * *

 

The first time Jemma bleeds (the Curse, some of the books call it; moon blood, others say) she’s horrified. She knows, vaguely, to expect such a thing, knows it’s her lot to bear as a woman or possibly her penance to pay for being one (this is one place Miss Rose’s words are different than the books), but sanitized and censored as her reading has been, and vague as Miss Rose has been on the matter (she’s far enough removed from it herself that her accounts aren’t particularly clear), she’s not expecting _this_.

She’s used to pain in her back. Sometimes her scar (the long one over her spine, she’s seen it twisting over her shoulder in the mirror, it’s ugly and abrupt) aches, sometimes she feels a twinge in her ribs that refuses to go away. Sometimes she even thinks she remembers some greater, sharper pain from what came before, but that might just be the bad dreams she can’t always shake.

This is a whole different sort of pain, though, a low almost burning sort of cramping in her belly, and rivers of blood coming out of her, leaving a sticky red mess on her sheets. She cries, more from the embarrassment from the pain, and Miss Rose bids her soak in the pool and get the blood off her body while her sheets are being tended. Once she’s clean she drains the water, then fills it back up again, and she’s prepared to soak and sulk until her time has passed, but she soon learns that’s not how it works. It’s a punishment that keeps going. Miss Rose shows her how to tend to herself, cotton rags and drugs that seem to appear out of nowhere, but she’s sullen until the bleeding stops.

This keeps going, as it always does, and finally she asks Miss Rose, “Is this ever going to stop happening to me?” She’s personally affronted, like someone knew how much she hated being laid up and decided to make it biologically certain once every cycle of the moon.

“Gods willing, if you’re as old as I am,” Miss Rose says with a wry but poorly received smile. “Or should you have…”

Jemma tilts her head. “Have?”

“Gods willing, you won’t need to find out,” Miss Rose sighs.

Sometimes Jemma wonders what it might be like to have a friend, but so many of the girls in books are alone too, without even someone like Miss Rose, so she’s not so bad off, is she? Miss Rose tells her the truth about so many things. She doesn’t lie. Sometimes she doesn’t say everything, but Jemma assumes that she must have reasons, and getting mad at her for it would make this an even lonelier place to be.

Sometimes she hears men shouting outside, she knows somehow they’re the Warboys, but she doesn’t see them (they call through the door, sometimes, but they don’t speak to her and she doesn’t speak to them) and she doesn’t want to. They seem too much for her. The world seems too much for her: she hears a waterfall rushing and knows she is lucky beyond measure to have water in a pool any time she wants it, but she knows there is a price to pay, even if it’s just her isolation. She suspects that it’s not, but that’s one of the things Miss Rose doesn’t explain.

Jemma knows very many things, has taught herself as much as she can, but she also knows that she doesn’t know anything, not really. She knows the world as it was, the world that’s in books. She doesn’t know what it’s like outside. She wants to know, but she’s also afraid to find out.

 

* * *

 

Daisy is the terror of the Citadel.

She doesn’t know who she belongs to - was her father one of the Warboys, perhaps, brave and pale and battle-scarred? - but most days she’s content enough knowing she belongs to herself. She wants to know who she is, beyond just the ink on her wrist that says, but nobody else has a family either.

She runs through the caverns and passages, avoiding the Warboys and the rest of Immortan Gideon’s people but only barely, enough that she knows they whisper about her. She scavenges what she can and makes a hiding place of an empty closet-room in the coolest darkest corner she can find. She could go outside, but she hears things, hears it’s even worse, and she’d never admit it but she’s afraid. So she stays here, she listens and she learns and it’s not a very big life but at least she’s got more than half of one.

She’s near-grown, she thinks, her hair long and tangled, when the Immortan ascends to his Valhalla. She hears whispers for days, and when they put him to rest she sneaks past the ceremony, out of the way. One of the oldest Warboys (the name is funny, when they’re that old, but they’re still painted white and singing praises to their engines, so Daisy doesn’t know what else to call them) gives a speech about something, with lots of shouting and chanting, and there’s very masculine crying. She’s proud of herself for not laughing at that. Once that’s done, the Immortan’s body is burned on a pyre.

(Precious Jemma tells her later, once such pyres were floated down rivers. There are no rivers here.)

What happens next is: one of the hangers-on, smeared with greasepaint but more bedecked than an ordinary Warboy, takes the ashes. With all of the others looking on, he swallows them like a tall drink. The others cheer.

“The Immortan lives!”

Daisy doesn’t know much about life or death or faith, but swallowing remains doesn’t seem like reincarnation. But if they say this young man is their new leader, then he must be.

His name is Ward, this man, and for a long time that’s all Daisy knows. She hears he takes the old Immortan’s daughter, the sunny-haired Princess, to wife, and she vows to stay as far away as she can. Is he meant to be reincarnated or just an heir? Either way, it doesn’t seem right, but what does she know?

Things go on as usual, after that. She steals from the kitchen, sneaks into the greenhouse and the room where extra water is always kept, she watches the Warboys spray their mouths silver and ride fearless into battle after battle, she stares enviously as the chosen few Imperators ride out in their rigs (what must it be like, she wonders, to have power over such a fierce machine? She thinks she’d be able to do it, herself, but even she can’t steal and lie her way to having access to one, so the theory goes untested) and grimaces at every speech she hears the Immortan makes.

She teaches herself everything she knows by listening and watching and repeating, privately. She talks to herself to fill the air in her private room, but never too loudly. She wishes sometimes that she had someone, but knows the risks of exposing herself outweigh the good that could come of it.

She thinks, perhaps naively, that she’s not noticed.

She’s in a corner looking outside one day, staring with horror, fascination, and awe out at the desert with its warrior bandits and its few signs of life, when a voice says low in her ear, “Who knew our little ghost was such a pretty one?” and she’s grabbed about the waist and then it all goes dark.

 

* * *

 

Daisy wakes in a room larger and brighter than any she’s ever been in by invitation. There’s voices around her, female voices so at first she doesn’t worry.

“Who _is_ she?” asks one - sounds younger, maybe Daisy’s age (whatever that is) - with equal parts wonder and fear.

“Crossbones just called her the ghost,” says the other - older, calmer, like nothing scares her anymore.

“Not a ghost,” rasps Daisy. She sounds awful, she knows that instinctively, and she can’t recall if it’s from screaming too much or her voice going too long unused.

The young one gasps. “Miss Rose,” she exclaims, “she’s not well.”

“No, precious, she’s not,” the older one - Miss Rose - frowns. “But at least she’s finally awake.”

Daisy stirs restlessly. “How…?”

“The sun has set three times since you were brought to us,” the young one reports diligently, smiling.

This doesn’t mean much to Daisy, who has never kept track of time in such a way, but she understands that it’s longer than usual to be asleep. Long enough that they must have thought her dead.

“The poor thing,” says Miss Rose. “What do we call you, not-a-ghost?”

Daisy blinks. She’s never been asked that before, even though there’s an answer, and between the surprise of it and how her voice is so shot, she doesn’t want to speak. Instead she turns her wrist up and nods to the small tattoo there: _daisy_ in small letters (the only ones she can reliably read) with a drawing of such a thing. She’s seen the hidden gardens, heard them discussed as well, she knows that a d-a-i-s-y is what that drawing is, and if it’s written on her it must be what she is too. That’s been there since she can remember, so it must be her identification. (Is that common? She doesn’t know.)

“Daisy, how funny,” the young one says. “You’re a daisy and she’s a rose, it’s a proper garden.” She smiles to show it’s meant sweetly.

“And she’s Jemma,” Miss Rose adds. “Our precious Jemma.” There’s something almost pitying in the title.

Daisy tries to smile, and Jemma asks, “May I?” as she reaches for Daisy’s hand. Off Daisy’s nod she laces their fingers, and very solemnly she says, “I’m glad to make your acquaintance.”

Daisy, who suddenly feels warm, asks, “But why…?”

Jemma shrugs her shoulders, for once without answers, and Miss Rose just shakes her head. She’s putting off giving that answer until she knows it for sure.

 

* * *

 

For a little while (countless sunsets, every one of which Daisy insists on watching out the window, and at least a dozen cycles of the moon, which Miss Rose explains both solemnly and fabulously) it’s only them, or them and Miss Rose. Jemma, who doesn’t say so but clearly hates being in bed too long, runs about the Vault reorganizing the space to suit their new addition and then reorganizing it just to suit her whims.

She reads to Daisy, or Miss Rose reads to both of them, old stories of the world before it was lost. Some are in books. More are in the ink on Miss Rose’s skin, spelling out the history of everyone who used to be. After a while, Jemma begins to teach Daisy to read, too, and Daisy begins to teach Jemma about the world outside this room, or what she’s gleaned, anyway.

About the way the real daisies and roses have a home outside of books, and it’s not so far away at all, just above their heads and tended by the Immortan’s most trusted (but she’s seen it, she was that good at sneaking about, and she tells Jemma about that too, preening when Jemma calls her brave and capable).

About the Warboys and their blood donors, the ill-sustained half-lives they lead and their guzzoline and engines and wheels (Jemma has heard their noises, seen them distantly, but Miss Rose has never explained them like Daisy does).

About the Immortan who rules over them all, how he’s not who started with that title, how he claimed a wife like it was his right (this is something that Jemma knows a bit more about, but mostly just from that same Warboy shouting and carrying-on).

Miss Rose doesn’t discourage this talk, although she knows she ought to. Her job, though she hates it, is to keep these girls protected and safe, and that means innocent. Daisy and Jemma are young, sheltered even, but they’re too analytical and headstrong. She’s glad of it, because it means they’ll survive even if the worst should happen, but some might not be, including those who’d do that worst.

One day, she’s reading mythology to them as they weave fabric into braids and lacework designs like in old pictures, and Jemma asks, “Who are these for?”

Miss Rose frowns. “The Princess has passed,” she says, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “The Immortan wants a feminine touch for her pyre.”

Jemma nods, frowning as well, with concentration perhaps, but Daisy very softly asks, “Is he going to do to her what he did to her father?”

Yet again, Miss Rose doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know the answer, but she doesn’t want to know it either.

 

* * *

 

It’s late into the night when Jemma hears screaming. It’s not unusual to hear Warboys’ chanting and shrieking through the windows that are too high to reach, but this is different. It’s shrill, it’s _close_.

It sounds like her own screaming.

She doesn’t remember the last time she screamed, clearly, but she suddenly knows with a certainty that she has and it sounded like that. She gets so far as to remember metal against her skin, blood even, a horrible pressure on her bones, before the thought shorts out again.

She sits up in bed so fast her head rushes, and she calls out for Miss Rose and for Daisy but nobody comes. The screaming stops and still nobody comes.

Jemma is hyperventliating by the time the door to the Vault slams shut and she can hear footsteps that tell her she’s not alone. There’s crying - Daisy - and soft, soothing murmurs - Miss Rose - and running water, and it’s so hushed that Jemma panics even more. She can’t imagine what’s going on, where they were. Why they left her here.

Finally Daisy comes into the bedroom and she _could_ make for her own mattress but she climbs into bed with Jemma instead and she curls up on her side and buries her face in Jemma’s lap. Jemma calms her own breathing instantly, because she knows that’s her role to play right now.

“You’re all right,” she whispers, trying for soothing. “You’re all right.”

“I’m _not_ ,” Daisy sobs. “He tasted like ashes.”

Jemma lifts Daisy up enough so that she herself can slide down to be on her side, face to face with Daisy and holding her. She doesn’t know what’s happened, exactly, but she knows, not just from inference but from instinct, that whatever happened, it’s to do with the Immortan.

“I don’t know why I’m crying so much,” Daisy whimpers into Jemma’s chest.

“He hurt you,” Jemma whispers, confirming the fact. “He’s horrible.”

“I didn’t realize I could hurt this much,” Daisy says. “My _insides_ hurt and my outsides too. Miss Rose helped me clean myself up, but I don’t think I’ll ever be clean again.”

Sighing, Jemma moves hair from Daisy’s face. “You are not what he did to you,” she says, firm but kind.

“He called me _his_ ,” Daisy murmurs, sounding disgusted. “His, pure-and-sweet.”

Jemma bites her lip. The words are kind on the outside, but she understands why they’re upsetting. “You aren’t,” she insists, because that’s all she can do. “His, I mean. You’re yours.”

Daisy’s eyes close and she moves nearer to Jemma. “I’m not, though,” she says. “Not anymore. His Princess is gone. I’m - _we’re_ his wives now. Maybe we’ve always been.”

“Maybe,” Jemma replies. She can feel, too, that this is true. That they’ve been kept here and cared for and locked away because they’re being kept for this one awful thing. She’s never known before what purpose feels like, but if it’s this she doesn’t like it at all.

He comes for Jemma - precious Jemma, the word twists in his mouth and she knows it’s been her story written all along - the next night, and she bites her tongue so hard it bleeds, but she doesn’t let herself cry. Not for him, not to Miss Rose, and not later in Daisy’s arms.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm playing fast and loose with _Fury Road_ mythology a little. I'm trying to use what I can, but I'm extrapolating where I have to.
> 
> Also, Princess is [Stephanie Malick](http://www.behindthename.com/name/stephen).


	2. yes I’m ashamed but the milestone is wandering far

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A third wife is stolen and brought to the Vault; to her, this seems inevitable.

It can get cold in the Wasteland. Especially at night, of course, when the sun goes down and there’s nothing but desert and rocks and tiny huddles of wanderers, but she shivers out of nowhere, sometimes.

Sometimes, though, it’s from the visions.

What else should she call them? She sees things and then they happen again, really. She doesn’t always see them happen that second time but she hears, which is one benefit of being such a nomad as she is. Hearing all the rumors and stories. She doesn’t just dream things, she’s seized with the thought of them without warning. It happens when she’s behind the wheel of her scrounged-up four-wheeler, especially; it happens so often she’s had to program a stop code she can hit before the trance takes her fully. And it happens at night when she’s building fires; she keeps her hair short so there’s less a chance of it getting caught in flames if she loses control.

She knows so much, though.

She knows where she needs to be to get the supplies she’ll want to survive (food, guns, auto parts).

She knows when meaningful awful things happen around her, when there’s some upheaval at the Bullet Farm, when warring Wastelander tribes do each other in, when Immortan Gideon falls and Immortan Ward rises up in his place.

She has no fondness for any of the nearby settlements, but her intention to keep away from the Citadel especially gets stronger with every vision she has of it, and they come more and more frequently. Immortan Ward culls the Warboys, elevating the young and sending so many of the older ones on missions doomed to end their sad half-lives. Immortan Ward takes that glossy, overly-devoted Princess, the one who came before’s daughter, as his bride, wrapping her in cloth so fine it snags from the brush of his callused fingertips. Immortan Ward leads raid after raid.

How can one man, she wonders, be so selfish and yet want so little to be better? She learns, in time, that he genuinely believes himself to be a god. Immortan, immortal. Gideon’s body was consumed but his work lives on, and that’s close enough to immortal for men like that. Just like Gideon before him, Ward believes himself a god, so he’s treated as one. He thinks he can’t die, so no one tries to kill him. He isn’t a god (she doesn’t know much of faith, but in her mind whatever god there is, gods there are, angels maybe, like in stories, they’re beautiful and bright, they create and they don’t destroy) but he terrifies her by reputation.

 

* * *

 

One evening, sitting by the fire, she’s thumbing through the old botanical encyclopedia she learned to read from as a child (she learned from a woman too old to be her mother who nonetheless looked after her when she was young, and she’s glad of it: it means she has another advantage out here, though it’s only sometimes one) like she does so often. It’s comforting, the descriptions and pictures of plants that aren’t. She likes to dream of them, imagine a world where something as small and beautiful as flowers might still exist. It’s the closest she gets to happy.

She dosen’t count on anyone else, but sometimes she joins with others like her for a night or two, whatever helps her survive. There’s a few of them with her tonight, two men and a woman, and she knows there’s a trance coming on when their voices get softer but sharper to her ear.

“What is it this time?” asks one of the men. He sounds amused by the situation, like most people are. Like they don’t believe her entirely but they’re going to ask out of politeness or superstition or both

“Immortan Ward’s Princess is dead,” she says flatly, her head thrown back and her eyes closed.

“Was it war? Should we get ready to stay outta the crossfire?” the woman asks.

She’s about to answer, but all at once she’s taken by another image, not the funereal blaze made of the Princess’ body but a beautiful young girl she’s never seen before, sobbing and naked in a comically large bed. For reasons she can’t quite explain, it’s so horrible she rocks onto her side, curls into herself to block it out.

“Well?” the other man asks, his voice distant.

And another, and this one makes her shout, shrill and shocked. In it, she’s folded in her own passenger seat, glaring and silent, while one of the godforsaken Warboys speeds her car toward the Citadel. She can feel the bile rising in her throat, hear her heart beat in her ears; she can already feel her face and belly start to ache where they’re going to be battered.

“All of you,” she says, her voice low, “get out now while you still have a chance.”

 

* * *

 

Jemma and Daisy are in bed.

For all her prior reticence about staying in bed like an invalid and for her hesitance to break down in front of the others, Jemma has been hesitant to leave the safety of her mattress and quilt since her night with the Immortan. And Daisy has been reticent to be alone. He’s left them be, off on some raiding adventure, and Miss Rose has kept her distance, feeling not unlike the shepherd who lead them to slaughter.

They haven’t spoken of the horrible thing that’s been done to them, not after Daisy’s immediate bout of anxiety. They haven’t talked much at all, not about anything real. But now, bare save the blankets, Daisy traces the long jagged scar on Jemma’s spine and asks, “It’s from before you remember?”

Jemma nods, frowning a bit. “My memory starts after that. Healing from the surgery.” She knows by now that that’s what happened. “I might have been anyone before that, but I suppose I was being groomed even then. They fixed my bones to keep me here.”

“Jem,” Daisy murmurs.

“No good offering a broken sacrifice up to the gods,” Jemma says bitterly.

Daisy draws over the scar, following each rough edge gently. “You aren’t -”

But she’s interrupted by a low scream from the outside of the Vault. It sounds like a warrior noise, but it’s clearly a woman making it. Jemma flips over to stare at Daisy, eyes wide, and instinctively they grab each other.

“Miss Rose,” roars a Warboy, through the heavy locked door, “open up, there’s a new one for you.”

Miss Rose startles and bustles into the bedroom, muttering, “Get up, get up, can’t let those fools see you like this.” (Even if it wouldn’t be the first time.)

Jemma and Daisy scramble out of bed, feeling like they’ve been caught at something, and they hurry to wrap themselves somehow. A visit from a Warboy, face-to-face, only means the Immortan has hurt to rain on them, so as soon as they’re dressed they grab hands again. Miss Rose frowns at that, but she doesn’t mind truly. If whichever Warboy it is makes a fuss or even notices she’ll take care of it. If the Immortan makes a fuss, she’ll…

She’ll do something.

“We’re all decent,” Miss Rose calls, before hissing to the girls, “Don’t look him the eye.”

“Like a basilisk,” Jemma whispers.

The door creaks open and one of the Warboys, tall and intimidating even more than most (Daisy thinks his name might be Crusher), pushes in, dragging a young woman in with him. On her other side is the Immortan, and all three women shiver.

Jemma can’t help but gasp at the sight of the lovely stranger with her left eye swollen shut, her lip bloody, her skin bruised and torn.

They have a new sister-wife.

 

* * *

 

She struggles when those ghost-pale monsters find her, she can’t not, but she knows it’s futile. She knows every place they’ll hit her, an elbow in her gut to jar her, a knee between her legs to get her down, a fist in the eye to stun her, another in the jaw to shut her up, and she tries to tell herself it’s happening for a reason, that it’ll be all right in the end, because it must be.

She’s only halfway conscious when the Warboys lead her to her car (her messy, wonderful car, scavenged for and put together with something she thinks might be love, that she’s sure is going to be mined for parts and scrapped as soon as it’s out of her sight) and though she halfheartedly claws at them, one of them cuffs her upside the head and drops her in the seat. She drifts in and out of herself as they drive, glaring when she’s awake enough and groaning softly when she isn’t.

By the time they arrive at the Citadel, her insides are knotted with fear and her outsides ache. Her blood has dried, leaving messy clumps on her skin, and her jaw feels too sore to move.

When one of the Warboys (the others call him Crusher) hauls her out of her front seat, she growls low in her throat and kicks at him, at anyone she can reach. This earns her an arm about her waist so tight the wind is knocked out of her and the other about her throat so tight she chokes on what little air she can swallow.

“Come on,” he says, low and oddly warm (like seduction, perhaps? She doesn’t know why). “Places t’go, people t’see.” It sounds ironic.

He pulls her through caverns (she feels not unlike a trophy, the spoils of a war she’s been drafted into since birth) and hollers at his fellows proudly and all of a sudden they’re standing before the Immortan.

Her heart feels like to jump out of her chest.

The Immortan tsks, looking her over. “She’s a fighter, hm?” he asks, sounding somehow bother impressed and highly disapproving.

“I managed to make her comply,” Carl says proudly.

“I see that,” the Immortan replies. He reaches to touch her cheek, lift her chin. “What’s your name?”

She doesn’t have one, that she knows (some don’t, out in the Wasteland), but he wouldn’t deserve to know it even if she did, so she summons all of her strength and spits in his face.

Of course, he backhands her for it, even as he says, “Very well, little freak.”

 

* * *

 

Crusher and the Immortan haul her down yet another hallway, digging fingernails into her arms so hard she starts bleeding anew. Crusher slams a door open and she shrieks. Before her is the girl from the vision, the impossibly sad one in the bed.

What was she expecting?

That girl, tan and disheveled and looking much stronger than someone her size ought, is holding hands with another, a slight thing pale as clouds with a dusting of freckles across her skin, and they both look so lost.

She is suddenly, fiercely in love.

“Meet your new sisters,” the Immortan says, a cruel twist to his words. “My precious Jemma, my Daisy pure-and-sweet.”

 _Daisy._ Her breath catches.

“And our _madam_ , Miss Rose,” he continues. “Girls, this is…”

“Flowers,” she gasps, only halfway aware she’s said it at all. She’s found a place where flowers still grow, at least somewhat, and it surprises her in a way few things ever have.

The Immortan roars with laughter. “The little freak wants to be part of the garden, too,” he says. “Flowers, then.”

And so she is christened, and so it shall be.

 

* * *

 

Flowers, then.

For the first time she has a name, and she knows it was given cruelly but she refuses to be hurt by it. It’s right for her, and he cannot take that small thing away.

Jemma cleans her cuts and asks, “Who were you before?” and she doesn’t know how to answer.

Finally, encouraged by Daisy’s expectant eyes and Jemma’s thoughtful frown, she says, “No one, nowhere.” She’s usually more articulate, but it hurts to talk, and she hopes they understand that. (They do.)

“Everyone is _somewhere_ ,” Jemma murmurs, looking puzzled.

Flowers nods lazily in the direction of the outside. “Not anywhere named,” she says, voice crackling.

Daisy lights up, taking the one of Flowers’ hands that’s not bruised painfully. “Out there, though?” she asks, too eager. “The Wasteland?”

“Yes,” Flowers says, worrying her lip.

“Oh, dear,” says Jemma, immediately holding a tissue to Flowers’ mouth. “You can’t do that, Flowers, not till it heals. You’ll keep hurting yourself.”

“Couldn’t have that,” Flowers mutters, rolling her eyes with a bitterness not at all aimed at the others.

Jemma frowns, because she’s unused to that kind of sarcasm, and Daisy rubs her shoulder, shooting a reproachful look at Flowers. The wounded expression on Jemma’s face does something to her, calls up something fierce and hot and furious. She knows in that moment that she’d kill for Jemma’s sake. Not now, not when she’s sure Flowers meant no harm and was just speaking in frustration, but someday.

Instead she says, “We’re all each other has. We look out for each other, not for anyone else’s sakes but for our own.”

Jemma looks up shyly. “I don’t know much,” she says, “but I know how to help when one of us is hurt. Please let me?”

Flowers is appropriately chastened, it seems, and she asks, “That happens often?” even though she knows the answer already.

“Now it does,” Daisy says darkly.

“Since his Princess…”

“How do you know about that?” Daisy exclaims.

Flowers sighs, shuts her eyes. “Tomorrow, maybe,” she says, suddenly weary.

Jemma nods. “Of course,” she murmurs. “Can we get you into bed, would that be all right?”

Flowers hums agreement, and the other two help her stand, guide her into the bedroom, lay her down and very gently tuck her in.

“We’ll be near,” Jemma promises as they step back.

“And Miss Rose, too,” Daisy adds. “If you need us…”

Flowers smiles weakly. “Thank you,” she whispers. The words feel foreign on her tongue - she’s never had any cause to thank someone before, not really.

Jemma and Daisy crawl into the same bed, Flowers notices. She’s glad and aching all at once.

 

* * *

 

It takes a dozen sunsets till Flowers is better enough. She’s hurt worse than she seems at first, Miss Rose thinks, but with no way of testing this (Jemma pores over their books and bemoans a lack of something called an x-ray machine) they have to guess. She stays in bed, mostly, and the other girls tell her stories and secrets both.

At first they talk of _their_ before: Jemma’s life on her back and in books, all the old-world stories of cities and schools and societies lost. She talks of all the things she’s learned about bodies and how they work. Daisy explains her childhood running around the Citadel, stealing knowledge and things alike, fighting and hiding in equal measure.

Then, more shyly, they talk about each other. Jemma praises Daisy’s bravery, her resourcefulness, her big heart; Daisy praises how Jemma doesn’t give up, how she fills her head with knowledge, how she lights up when she’s happy.

(She doesn’t say how rare that is, but Flowers knows.)

Miss Rose is already asleep one night when they sit cross-legged on the floor under the window, hand-in-hand all three, and they tell Flowers their truth about the Immortan. Jemma only knows what happens _now_ , since Princess died, but Daisy has more stories and each and every one is just as horrible as what Flowers has seen and heard. Neither of the girls have words for what he’s done to them at night (none of the books on their shelves mention it, not in any relatable way) but it’s hard enough for them to discuss that Flowers understands entirely.

She isn’t a virgin, but the other two were, before the Immortan’s visits. She doesn’t explain this to them because, even though she doesn’t really believe in _virginity_ as anything more than a way to say someone has had an experience, she doesn’t want to make them feel as if they’ve lost something. She’s had sex before, but she doesn’t value it, not exactly. She’s gone to bed with someone for shelter, food, warmth, a way to ease boredom. It’s never been something she looked forward to or dreaded either, it just _was_. But the difference, she knows, is that before she always got to say _yes_.

 

* * *

 

One morning she slides from sleep into a trance straightaway. She can hear Jemma scream, but only distantly; her body is seized with the vision, hands in fists, spine stiff, and she hears groaning but all she sees is black.

The girls are kneeling at her bedside when she comes to, and Daisy asks, “What _was_ that?”

Flowers frowns. “He’s coming for me tonight.”

“But you were just… you were having a _seizure_ ,” Jemma says, sounding distraught.

“It happens when I see things,” Flower sighs. “When I see them before they happen.”

“That’s not possible,” Jemma murmurs, doubtful though possibly more of her own learning.

Flowers shrugs, sitting up in bed and inviting the other two to join. “Apparently it is,” she says softly. “I’ve always been able to and I don’t know why. I have visions of things that haven’t happened yet and then they _do_ happen.”

“How?” Daisy asks, sounding skeptical in that way Flowers is used to.

“I don’t know,” she replies. “But they do come true, every time. I knew where to find the things for my car -”

“You had a _car_?” Daisy shouts. “What was it like?”

“Wonderful,” Flowers sighs nostalgically, then shaking her head to disturb that train of thought. “I saw that, I saw when raids would happen and where. I saw Princess’ funeral.”

“ _Oh_ ,” Jemma and Daisy breathe out.

“I saw you,” Flowers continues, looking Daisy in the eyes. “After…” It’s clear what she means, and Daisy is the first one to break their eye contact, biting her lip. “And I saw the Warboys coming for me.”

“Oh,” Jemma says again.

“Now I know, he’s done waiting,” Flowers says, wrapping arms around herself.

“I’m sorry,” Jemma whispers.

“I’m not,” Flowers says plainly. “I don’t want him anywhere near me, but every night he’s with me is one he’s not with either of you.”

Daisy and Jemma frown at each other. They would protest if they didn’t already trust that it was inevitable, both because they know Flowers has no reason to lie and because they know that _he_ will come no matter what, eventually.

They’re still waiting up for her when she gets back that night, though. They still clean the mysterious cuts on her wrists and brush the knots from her hair.


	3. wipe the tar off your face and the dust from your eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Immortan catches a Mockingbird and is given a changeable 33; now that they are five, the Wives come to a horrible realization.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra tw for slurs and also needles (not graphic because I too hate them with a passion, but they're present).

When she’s very little, she’s one of the people beneath the Citadel, dodging through people toward the waterfall and twirling beneath it with her mouth hanging open until someone pulls her out of the way by her long, tangled, golden hair. Does she have a family? She must. She remembers long distances driven in a ratty car, a woman’s hands pointing at words on a page (rare thing, books, practically extinct and she doesn’t know where they got one but there it was, when she closes her eyes she can still see the words, foolish though they were - _It is a truth universally acknowledged_ …) and a woman’s voice singing her to sleep, but the faces all blur together in the crowd. It’s everyone for themselves, fighting down there to survive.

She never forgets that feeling, dryness, dirtiness, _thirst_.

Her early years drag on as she lives them and get muddled as she tries to remember them. Somewhere along the line, she comes by some metal rods that must have fallen off a passing War Rig and she teaches herself how to use them. They come in handy for fighting off other Wretched ones, men mostly, desperate for someone to make them forget about their sad existence.

She’s near-grown, taller than most and somehow a bit invulnerable (there are whispers, even down there she looks healthier and shines brighter than the masses and nobody knows why, including her), when she wrangles her way onto a transport - _not_ one of the Immortan’s, she knows better - and winds up at the Bullet Farm. There she steals a jacket, has her very first good meal (good meaning rounded, not particularly tasty), and learns that a sweet smile and honeyed voice will get her farther even than hitting someone harder and harder till they listen.

She learns she too can sing, so long as she has the luxury of time spent idly.

She learns to wrap her sticks and hands both in cloth to make them easier to hold.

She learns that she’s a very good liar.

The men, gangsters some of them, start calling her the Bird, like any woman might be, or more specific the Mockingbird. Sweet voice that tells you what you want to hear, that’s her. She might have had a different name before, but she’s not telling, and this one suits who she is now. By the time that what used to pass for winter rolls around, the Mockingbird has actually started to develop a reputation: she fights rough, learns fast, shows no fear. She doesn’t drive, but she picks up every tongue she hears spoken out in the Wasteland. She keeps a gun on her hip and her sticks at her back.

And, she can’t forget it because it’s as much a weapon as anything else, she’s uncommonly beautiful.

She somehow doesn’t realize that this draws a target on her back, though. She doesn’t realize that the so-called vigilante seductress (accounts vary, and they almost always exaggerate; she flirts but rarely seduces, she defends innocents but she’s hardly a hero) who was once of the Wretched could still be culled like someone starving and vulnerable beneath the Immortan’s home. If she is a Bird, shouldn’t she have flown away?

It’s not that simple.

 

* * *

 

She doesn’t know who sells her out, she’ll never know, but she passes out after a blow to the back of her head and the smell of toxic chemicals in her nose, and when she wakes, her wrists and ankles are bound and she’s stripped of all her weapons. She’s in the back of some junker truck, dark canvas pulled down all around the sides.

She’s at a disadvantage, but she refuses to show it. Instead, she looks around to find her guard and what she says is, “Guess you didn’t drug me hard enough, huh?”

Her guard, who’s painted like the Warboys she saw in her youth, grimaces. “The slut’s awake,” he calls to his driver.

The Mockingbird all but growls, lunging toward the Warboy as best she can (they were daft enough to bind her hands in front of her, so she can still use them for leverage). “Rot in hell,” she shouts, sinking teeth into his arm hard enough to draw blood.

He just laughs, grabbing her by her hair. “I am awaited in Valhalla,” he says serenely, and he slams her skull into the truckbed. “Dumb bitch, I don’t know if the Immortan wants to fuck you or kill you or both.”

She barely has the presence of mind not to groan as she slips back into unconsciousness.

The next time the Mockingbird wakes, she curses her own smart mouth. This time she’s belted at wrists, ankles, waist to the arms of a chair. She’s stripped, not fully but to the dirty tank top she wears under her proper clothes, and it makes her nervous.

“There she is,” calls a new male voice. “Our little thief and harlot of the hour.”

The Mockingbird growls, thrashing in her seat. “Filthy schlanger,” she shouts, “ _неэкономичные монстра_.” One of her parlor tricks, she doubts he knows it but other languages always make for better insults. If this is how she dies, she’s going out fighting.

He clicks his tongue, coming around to give her a good look at him. Mask idle around his neck, chest bare and tattooed with ropy tentacles, eyes bloodshot: the Immortan, only he’s not, not the same one she saw as a child. He’s different, younger, terrifying in his virility.

She spits at him.

“The fabled Mockingbird,” he says, laughing like he’s got one over on her. “Every bit as feisty as they say.”

She grits her teeth, recoiling from him as he leans close. “Warlord scum,” she hisses.

He smiles, stroking her bare thigh. “Boys!” he calls, turning away. “Today we’ve caged the Mockingbird and brought her home.” He lowers his voice and narrows his eyes at her. “Pretty, pretty bird.”

She looks for a window to run, a way to pull free and get out of here, but she knows it’s hopeless. No sooner is she let off the chair than a skeleton-tattooed Warboy lifts her up and another in what looks like an apron for welding injects her with something to keep her docile. (She hates needles, more than almost anything. They’re invasive and awful, but it’s powerful stuff, and she’s too wakefully dead to grumble seconds after the poison hits her.)

The Warboy lugs her deeper, deeper, and opens a heavy locked door, throws her inside without a word. She doesn’t even scream in pain when she hits the floor. She can’t.

Someone else does, though. Some _ones_.

“It’s all right, precious,” a woman’s voice says. “Our Mockingbird has finally come.”

She tries to speak but her tongue is leaden just like her limbs. Only her glare conveys her displeasure.

That same voice, belonging to a woman with dark ringletted hair and big wise eyes, says, “You’ll sing again soon, I promise.”

Another girl, pale and delicate, whispers, “That’s unnerving, Flowers.” To the Mockingbird she says, “I’m sorry. She doesn’t mean to startle you.”

“Any worse than you’re already startled,” the third girl mutters, rolling her eyes. “I’m Daisy, this is Jemma, that crazy is Flowers, our Miss Rose is sleeping.”

“And you’re the Mockingbird,” Flowers says eagerly. “I know about you.”

“She had a vision,” Daisy interrupts, rolling her eyes fondly.

Flowers shrugs, the picture of modesty. “I’d heard of you before that,” she says. “You’re what passes for famous out there.”

With some effort, the Mockingbird hums a general question.

“Let’s get her up,” Jemma says to the others, and they lift the Mockingbird gently and lay her on a bed (a real bed, like she’s not slept in in ages) before they crowd around again.

“I came from the Waste,” Flowers explains. “I wasn’t anyone, not like you, but I heard.”

“It’s wonderful,” Jemma murmurs. “You’re wonderful.” She sounds awestruck in a way that makes a funny vague jealous feeling stir in Daisy’s stomach.

The Mockingbird frowns slightly, summons the will to ask, “Where am I?”

The three women confer silently, then Daisy says, “If all the Warboys and terrors didn’t tell you, it’s the Citadel. Immortan Ward…”

“He’s claimed you,” Jemma says darkly. “He’s claimed all of us.”

“Says we belong to him,” Flowers scoffs.

“He does things to us,” Daisy adds, so disgusted it’s clear what things she means, and the Mockingbird shivers.

“It’s horrible,” Flowers says. “But it isn’t as awful as it could be.”

The Mockingbird understands that of the other women, Flowers is the authority on this.

 

* * *

 

She’s expecting what comes once she’s recovered, that some of the Warboys will come lug her to the Immortan, that they’ll backhand her when she kicks and bites, that he’ll beat her practically unconscious before he does _that_.

She doesn’t expect the way that, afterward, when she’s sitting sullenly in the bathing pool, Jemma will come up behind her, strip out of her nightdress, climb in beside her.

“I’m sorry,” Jemma whispers.

“What for?” the Mockingbird asks, hollow.

“I wasn’t enough for him,” Jemma frets. “If I’d… the first Immortan, he kept me here like a backup plan, and if I’d been less broken or more beautiful he’d never have started stealing the rest of you in the first place.”

Daisy gets in the pool on the Mockingbird’s other side and sighs. “That’s not on you, Jem,” she says. “I was the one he laid down with first.”

“But I was _here_ first,” Jemma says, sounding desperate. “He only touched you because I wasn’t - because he…”

Flowers appears, shaking her head. “The Immortan has always had these inclinations,” she says. “His Princess, the first wife, she was all politics. When she passed, he was free to take whoever he wanted.”

Jemma shudders. “He killed her, didn’t he?”

“I’d say so,” the Mockingbird mutters. “He’s a twisted fuck, he _wants_ us to feel like all this is our fault. He wants us to feel like we deserve it.”

 

* * *

 

33 belongs to the Gas Town boys’ leader. (His name is Whitehall, but nobody uses it and she has no need to. There are different intimidating, cruel nicknames that float around, but she doesn’t remember them and she has no need to.)

She always has belonged to him, or anyway she doesn’t remember anything else.

She knows it isn’t so bad. She doesn’t have to step outside with one of those masks on to breathe in those fumes (she’s not allowed to) and her job isn’t really work. She stands, or sits depending, at the leader’s side and holds a gun, looking…

Here is the baffling part. Sometimes she is meant to be cold, sometimes threatening, sometimes distracting. She’s taught herself an expression that could pass for all three and it works well enough.

She doesn’t fire her gun much, but she has before, when he tells her. It feels wrong, but she would rather them than her, and those are the only choices.

Mostly no one talks to her but to give orders. Mostly no one touches her but to give correction. It isn’t so bad. She doesn’t know anything else.

(Once upon a time, she was touched more and fed less. She had to work harder and she didn’t have to do as many hard things. She had a name, not a number. The benefits might not be worth the risks, but she doesn’t know that, not thanks to whatever thing must have happened to her.)

It’s at a meeting with some rival for the Gas Town throne that everything starts to go awry. A scuffle breaks out, and she hesitates for a second too long. A bit of the leader’s treasured guzzoline is thrown, she’s pushed out of the way and into one of the candles blazing on the wall.

She screams.

The men are too busy fighting at first to notice, but it’s a worse pain than she can remember. The side of her face is on _fire_ , she can see flames in front of her eyes.

They only notice when her crying (thought trained out of her) becomes louder than the fighting. Then, one of the men - she doesn’t know which, her leader’s cohorts all look the same to her - takes her by the elbow and drags her off to the doctor-butcher.

She spends a week in bed with bandages on her face, not moving and not visited, before she sees the truth of it. With ugly red scars down the left side of her face she’s not - something enough to be her leader’s girl guard anymore.

She is, apparently, ripe for trading with the Immortan of the Citadel.

At first she’s confused. How is she not good enough for her leader but good enough for a stranger? Then she’s angry. She belongs _here_ , doesn’t she? It’s what she knows.

She cries on the drive to the Citadel, enough that the man sitting beside her puts something in her arm and she goes to sleep without a word.

 

* * *

 

There are other women surrounding her when she wakes.

She doesn’t remember the last time she saw other women, and she’s suddenly very self-conscious.

“Kara,” a petite brunette whispers, “are you all right?”

“Who’s Kara?” 33 asks.

All of the women look sympathetically from her to each other.

She knows, then. “I’m Kara, aren’t I?’

“That’s what they said,” an older woman murmurs.

“Of course,” says 33, and she feels herself become Kara, just like that, like she must have secretly been all along. “I was called something else back…” She trails off. Home is the wrong word, isn’t it? “Back there.”

The older woman nods and introductions are made, these five women wrapped in white cloth cleaner than anything Kara can remember.

Miss Rose. (That’s her, the oldest, the - mother? That word seems wrong too, but it’s the closest she can come up with.)

Precious Jemma. (She’s the tiny one who spoke first, curious and startled.)

Daisy. (She looks the most like she’d be willing to do something dangerous, and she looks the most - not aloof, but like nothing surprises her and that’s not a good thing.)

Flowers. (Big-eyed, full-lipped, smiling with an odd twist.)

The Mockingbird. (She’s the tallest, and her hair and skin glow.)

And she is Kara. (The new, frightened one with ugliness etched into her skin.)

“Are you the Immortan’s…” Kara begins, but she trails off realizing she’s already lost the lie of what she was to her leader, at least in name. It must have vanished when she went to sleep, and it may never return.

“We’re his wives,” Flowers says, twisting the word around so it becomes a joke and a curse all at once.

“Except me,” Miss Rose laughs, a bit nervous.

“No, she’s just our nanny,” Daisy rolls her eyes.

Kara frowns. “What’s a nanny?”

“She minds us,” Jemma explains, sounding like she pities Kara for not knowing, but politely. “She teaches us things.”

Kara frowns, one hand to her face. “Am I his wife too?” she asks.

They all frown, now, and finally Miss Rose nods.

It’s in this moment that Kara realizes how small her idea of things is. “What… do wives do?” she asks.

“Nothing, if you’re lucky,” Daisy says, sounding disdainful.

 

* * *

 

“I didn’t know this would happen,” Flowers whispers, sounding distraught.

The first four Wives are sitting in a circle on the floor, under the window, while Miss Rose helps Kara wash. Flowers insisted.

“You miss things sometimes, don’t you?” the Mockingbird asks, seemingly bored.

Flowers shakes her head. “Not important things,” she says. “Not things that matter to us.” It’s still funny, saying “us” and not “me” after countless years of ignoring anyone’s needs but her own. Her Daisy and her precious and her Mockingbird, though, they’re her purpose. She would die for them, no question.

Jemma slaps a hand over her mouth, like she’s just had a horrible idea. “Does he know?” she asks, not needing to clarify who.

“About the visions?” Flowers murmurs. “He might. I’ve never told him outright, but…”

“Oh, Flowers,” Jemma sighs.

“He was with me once,” Flowers says, idly rubbing her wrists - they all have a sense that what he does with Flowers is not what he does with the rest of them. “We were… he asked me if I ever thought I’d live in such luxury. I said I’d dreamed it. I thought I sounded ironic.”

The Mockingbird nods, thinking. “He might not know, exactly,” she says. “I think there must be something that…”

“Drugs us,” Jemma supplies.

“I was going to say keeps us from beating our foreheads bloody against the wall,” the Mockingbird says wryly, “but it might be drugs, yeah.”

“Maybe,” Jemma echoes. “There’s chemicals in that stuff the Warboys carry around, there could be chemicals in places we don’t know.”

“When I was younger,” Daisy says suddenly, like she’s been holding it in for so long and just can’t stop herself anymore, “running around the Citadel, sometimes the ground would shake. Or rocks, in front of me, if I thought about it. That doesn’t happen anymore. I used to think I was dreaming, but maybe I wasn’t.”

“Some sort of neurochemical suppressant,” Jemma muses. “Tamping down our urge to fight and anything extra that might help us do.”

“What, though?” Flowers asks, uncomfortable with not knowing.

“Must be something we can’t quit,” the Mockingbird says. “Air. Water. He wouldn’t want to let us be able to opt out.”

“So we compromise or we die,” Daisy scoffs.

“Death might be kinder,” Jemma mutters.

Flowers makes a face. “There has to be another option,” she says. “I refuse to believe otherwise.”

“Somewhere, somehow,” the Mockingbird hums.

“We won’t know unless we try,” Daisy says.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _неэкономичные монстра_ ; "gas-guzzling monster"


	4. but had I not been through this I wouldn't be witness to a strength many can't claim to know

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wives study Kara and fret over her in turn; as their relationships with her grow, Jemma and Daisy's deepens.

As the first of them, Jemma is elected to go to Kara first. She sits down beside her and asks, “Where did you come from, out there?”

Kara, who’s been quiet and nervous since she arrived, flinches. “Gas Town,” she says. “I belonged to… his name is Whitehall.” She hasn’t said it aloud in some time and it sounds foreign.

Jemma nods. Like Flowers and the Mockingbird, then, she’s from the outside; like Jemma herself, perhaps, she was bred in captivity. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asks.

“I’m not sure how,” Kara admits. “Every day the words are harder and harder to find.”

“Can you try?” Jemma asks softly.

“I… I was alone, mostly,” Kara begins, hesitating. “Not like here. I wasn’t a wife. Not like here.” She scrunches up her face, thinking. “What does that mean?”

They should have figured she’d ask again, should have prepared an answer. “It means he asks things of us,” Jemma says, hesitating. “Not nice things.”

“Do we hurt people?” Kara whispers, feeling a sense of familiarity she can’t place.

Jemma sighs. “He hurts us and he calls it love.”

“How?” Kara presses.

“Have you… lain with a man?”

Kara blushes, though she doesn’t know why. “No?” she says. “I don’t remember.”

“Oh.” Jemma frowns. “May I take your hand?”

“Yes,” Kara says instantly.

Jemma does. “You are not what he does to you,” she whispers instead of addressing the previous point.

 

* * *

 

The other girls have hobbies.

That’s what Miss Rose calls it, her catchall term for how Flowers draws on the walls with charcoal, usually, well, flowers - she draws roses and daisies, wildflowers and tulips and irises, and teaches her sisters the difference - and how Jemma pores over the few books they keep, how Daisy likes to rub everyone’s shoulders - even Miss Rose’s - and sometimes if she’s not too keyed up the Mockingbird sings.

Kara likes when Daisy rubs her shoulders, but her own hands aren’t nearly as capable. Kara likes the pictures Flowers draws, but she’s too shy to commit her own scribbles to the walls. Kara especially likes when the Mockingbird sings, but she’s _much_ too shy to join in.

So she decides she’ll learn to read.

Her leader must have known, and some of his men too, but she wasn’t important enough to be taught, probably. Outside this was normal, but in here it seems embarrassing, so she doesn’t say anything. She just grabs a book at random and sits down. It’s a bad idea, without any guide for what matches the markings with sounds and words, but she’s stubborn, too stubborn to ask.

The others see this, of course. Kara is the baby of their group, not because of her age (Daisy and Jemma are both younger, probably) but because of her relative inexperience (if what she thinks she remembers is true and in Gas Town she carried guns, she’s got that over them, but she doesn’t know for sure; anyway, she’s newest here) and as such they know to handle with care.

Daisy is the one who sits down with Kara, careful not to intrude on her space. “Hey,” she says softly. “Are you all right?”

“I’m stupid,” Kara mumbles. “More machine than girl, and a faulty one at that.”

“You’re not,” Daisy says. “I didn’t know before Jemma taught me, except this.” She shows Kara her wrist.

“That’s your name,” Kara says, because she knows what daisies look like now.

Daisy nods. “I guess my parents left it on me, it’s been there since I remember.”

“Do you remember them?” Kara asks.

“Nah,” Daisy says. “There’s not much before I was a kid, little but not a baby, and by then I was running around the Citadel without supervision, like a tornado.”

Kara giggles. “Untamed,” she offers.

“Something like,” Daisy agrees with a companionable smile. “But at least here I’m not alone. That’s… it’s something, at least.”

“Yeah,” Kara says, although she doesn’t know the full price of it.

“You want me to try to teach you?” Daisy asks, reaching for the book (it’s Greek mythology, appropriately predatory gods and appropriately meek women). “I won’t be as good a teacher as Jem, but I can try.”

“You admire her, don’t you?” Kara asks.

“Jemma?” Daisy seems confused by the question. “Of course. She’s my first, truest friend, and I think she’s brilliant.”

Kara nods. She likes listening to the girls praise each other. She’s a bit jealous of it, honestly, she’s never had anything like it.

 

* * *

 

When Kara sleeps, she dreams.

She never remembers it when the others ask, concerned and sad, but they all see her toss and turn and whimper and cry. They can’t not.

They worry over her. Miss Rose worries, too, but when she offers to ask for something to help Kara, Jemma very calmly says, “Please don’t offer us drugs again.”

“If Kara wants…” Miss Rose begins, fretfully.

“I don’t,” Kara says, trying for some semblance of conviction. She’s not sure why, but she trusts Jemma and the others. They’ve been here longer, they know better.

“All right,” Miss Rose says.

Instead, the next time something horrible takes Kara over in her sleep, Flowers climbs in bed with her. She traces fingers over the bare skin of Kara’s back in slow, careful patterns until Kara wakes naturally.

“What are you doing?” Kara asks, sounding more perplexed than mad.

“I used to dream, too,” Flowers whispers. “I remembered them, though.”

Kara tilts her head. “What did you dream?”

“The truth,” Flowers says. “I guess that didn’t impress the Immortan, because when he found out, if he did, it stopped. But I remember how harrowing it is. I’m here if you want me.”

Kara thinks about this, nods. “May I listen to you breathe?” she asks.

“You’re so polite,” Flowers murmurs, sliding down and pulling Kara close.

“Is that a compliment?” Kara asks.

Well, the other wives have a funny sense of praise: the other morning when Daisy woke with her hair mussed, Flowers called her “feral” and Daisy beamed proudly; the other night when the Mockingbird strutted around the Vault imitating the Immortan’s bombastic speeches, Jemma called her “bad” and they all laughed.

“Yes and no,” Flowers says. “It’s a good thing but it’s dangerous.”

Kara nods. “I’m…” She searches for the word. “I’m too malleable.”

Flowers hugs Kara fiercely. “You’re perfect,” she whispers. “Anything that makes you doubt that can die screaming.”

 

* * *

 

One night, when Miss Rose is asleep, when Flowers is asleep, when Jemma and Daisy are asleep in the big bed curled up together like puppies (she learned about those in one of Miss Rose’s books, stumbling over the words), Kara hears the Vault door open and one of the Warboys slur, “Rest up, whore” as the Mockingbird stumbles in.

Kara pokes her head out. “Are you…?” Jemma’s words, _he hurts us and he calls it love_ , flash in her mind. That’s the only place the Mockingbird could have been, with the Immortan; it’s the only place they ever go.

The Mockingbird huffs dismissively. “It’s nothing new,” she says.

“But you’re bleeding,” Kara says. It’s true, the Mockingbird’s bottom lip is split open and it’s making her talk funny. _He hurts us._

The Mockingbird touches her mouth, unsurprised. “Yeah, he does that when I fight back,” she says flatly. A moment passes, in which she tilts her head at Kara, and she asks, “Come help me clean it up?”

Kara nods. “Should I get Miss Rose up?”

“Don’t bother her,” the Mockingbird mutters. “I can take care of myself, I’d just rather have an extra set of hands and eyes if you’re awake anyway.”

“Oh,” Kara says, “well, all right.” She follows the Mockingbird to the medicine cabinet and frowns. “I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“I’m not sure,” Kara says honestly, “but I am. How can I help?”

The Mockingbird’s eyebrow goes up. “I’ll talk you through it,” she says. She rummages in the cabinet, withdraws cotton and a bottle. ALCOHOL, it says. Kara is proud of herself for knowing that, then feels foolish for being proud for such a little reason. “Shit,” the Mockingbird sighs, “what I’d give for this to be drinkable.” Her hands are shaking as she tries to open the bottle, so Kara reaches to still her hands and twist the lid off herself.

“You’ve drunk alcohol?” Kara asks softly, awed.

The Mockingbird nods. “Lots going on in the wild,” she says. “Pour some of that on the gauze?”

Kara nods. “You’re from there?” she continues, raising an eyebrow before she holds the gauze to the Mockingbird’s lip. “Outside.”

“I grew up below,” the Mockingbird says, “staring up at the Immortan begging for water. The Wretched. I got out and made something of myself, but he likes a challenge.”

“Oh,” Kara murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” the Mockingbird says. “You were at Gas Town, weren’t you?”

“I think so,” Kara whispers.

“You’re 33,” the Mockingbird says like it’s a sudden revelation. “I heard about you. Whitehall’s toy soldier.”

“I think so,” Kara repeats, flinching. “I don’t know for sure anymore. I forget things.”

“I’m sorry,” the Mockingbird murmurs.

“Don’t be,” Kara says, and then, “Why would you be?”

“I tried to help people, sometimes,” the Mockingbird says. “I could have made it my prerogative to help you. If I’d listened to my gut.”

“Why would you have?” Kara asks. “I was no one to you.”

The Mockingbird opens and closes her mouth. “I just should have,” she says.

“What did the Immortan do to you?” Kara asks.

“What he always does,” the Mockingbird murmurs, her tone deadened. “He likes to prove where he’s been.”

“Oh,” Kara says. “Will he do it to me, too?”

“Not if I can help it,” the Mockingbird says.

 

* * *

 

“Found you,” Daisy says, crawling under the piano to tap Jemma on the nose.

“I don’t know if I was really hiding,” Jemma says. “Why do we even play hide and seek anymore? We’re too old and we know all of the places to hide.”

Daisy shrugs, settling cross-legged on the floor. “Not much else to do,” she says. “Do you want a rub?”

“Sure,” Jemma nods.

“The usual spots?” Daisy asks.

“Yes,” Jemma says. “Thank you.” She flattens out on her stomach, head poking out into the room at large.

They’re quiet while, Daisy rubbing patterns on the skin of Jemma’s shoulders and relishing every moan this draws from Jemma’s lips. Finally, though, she says, “You’ve been quiet.”

“I’m worried,” Jemma admits. “He still hasn’t come for Kara. I don’t want him to, but it feels like… I don’t know, like there’s something coming.”

“It’ll be okay,” Daisy says, because she has to believe that. “One way or another. We’ve got each other, we’ll be all right.”

“Or we’ll be dead,” Jemma mutters. “You’ve seen what he does to Flowers, to Mockingbird.” Her voice catches. “How long until it catches up with them? With us?”

“It won’t,” Daisy says. “We won’t let it. We can’t.”

“I love you,” Jemma says suddenly, turning on her side to face Daisy.

“I love you too,” Daisy laughs, squeezing Jemma’s shoulder.

“No,” Jemma insists, “I _love_ you. Like an… like an Aphrodite kind of love. Like men and women in books.” She sounds distressed, like this is some great calamity.

“Oh,” Daisy says. “Like he says he does to us.”

“Except he’s a liar,” Jemma exclaims, voice rising. “He’s an awful liar who doesn’t know what love is, he corrals us and keeps us here and he says it’s love when he touches us but he’s distorting what that even means. You don’t hurt people you love. It makes me sick to think of you being hurt, even a bit. I’d let him tear me up if it meant he’d never touch you again.” She’s working herself into a frenzy, and Daisy slides down beside her and wraps arms around her soothingly.

“I wouldn’t be able to stand for that,” Daisy whispers. “I’m sick thinking of _that_.”

“There’s something wrong with me, though,” Jemma says. “It’s not normal.”

“Says who?” Daisy asks. “We all know what we read is only part of the truth. You could love me. If you do, you think highly of me, don’t you?”

“Yes,” Jemma says.

“Then do you think there’s something wrong with _me_?” Daisy asks.

Jemma’s eyes go wide. “You…”

“I love you too,” Daisy says. “In every true way.”

“Could I kiss you?” Jemma whispers.

“Please?” Daisy says.

They’re both clumsy at it, never having kissed for love before, and their teeth and tongues knock together, but it’s sincere. It’s tender. It’s unlike anything else they’ve known. It’s perfect.

 

* * *

 

The first time he comes for Kara, they’re all asleep, even her. It’s only later, much later, when Jemma wakes with a sick stomach and bolts out of bed, that Kara’s absence is even noted.

And it’s noted loudly. Jemma shrieks, goes to shake Daisy awake, shake all of them. “She’s gone,” she shouts, “Kara’s gone.”

The Mockingbird wakes with a start, jumping out of bed. “Where, how,” she shouts. She races to Miss Rose’s side, taps her leg until she’s up.

“He’s going to break her,” Jemma frets, “going to rip her open.”

“She’s too good for him,” Daisy mutters.

“He broke in to steal her,” Flowers murmurs.

“He - whichever of them came for her - they’d have seen us,” Jemma whispers, horrified.

“He’ll learn anyway,” Daisy says, “he always does. If he was mad we’d know already.”

“Maybe not yet,” the Mockingbird says, though sympathetically.

“We sleep together all the time,” Flowers says, “it wouldn’t alert him.”

“He’s going to hurt Kara,” Daisy shouts.

“He’s going to hurt all of you and it’s my fault,” Miss Rose says in a low voice. “There’s no way ‘round it.”

The Vault door creaks open and Kara wanders in, looking dazed but unharmed. “Hello,” she says.

“Kara,” they all shout, and the Mockingbird runs to her, takes both of her hands.

“What happened?” she asks. “How much do I -”

Kara smiles faintly. “He called me Persephone,” she says. “His flower of hell. He touched my face and called me his beautiful monster.”

“What did he _do_?” the Mockingbird hisses.

“Nothing more, nothing less,” Kara hums, swaying. “He wants to take his time with his beloved.”

 

* * *

 

When Kara is asleep, the other Wives meet in their spot under the window, all in a panic.

“What did he _do_?” the Mockingbird demands. “She’s acting like he talked to her like a lover. She says he didn’t touch her hardly at all.”

“Until we know otherwise, we have to take her at her word,” Jemma says. “So that’s what happened as far as we know.”

“He’s like that with me sometimes,” Daisy says grimly. “All… pawing at me, faking romance. _Oh my Daisy pure-and-sweet, if only I could make the world beautiful for us._ He likes to say _us_ when he talks.”

“You’re his favorite,” Flowers says sympathetically. “You’re his favorite and I’m his freak, Jemma is his angel and Mockingbird is his devil.”

The Mockingbird scoffs. “And Kara is his beautiful monster,” she says. “What good does that do her? He hurts angels and devils the same. He likes making all of us bleed.”


	5. and I think that I am close to a place where my spirit is dying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Wives meet their first Imperator, Daisy and Jemma take the next step, and the Immortan does different horrible things to Daisy and the Mockingbird especially.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> extra!!! special!!! rape pregnancy and violence and unpleasantness!!! warning!!!

Daisy is the only one who pays much attention to the goings-on outside, with the Warboys and their cars and most of all the Imperators. She’s fascinated by the thought of them, by their War Rigs and their power to come and go. To see more of the world than a glorified cave.

Flowers gets sad, though. She mourns her car almost as much as she mourns her visions. She mourns her freedom. The Mockingbird mourns her freedom, too. She mourns the ease with which she made it around, her leather jacket and her sticks, batons Jemma tells her they’d have been called once, she misses having a good spar or a good lay.

“The Immortan fights and fucks,” she says, making Jemma and Kara blush, “but neither time is it satisfying.”

Daisy has wanderlust, though. She looks out at the Wasteland with longing. She wants to get behind the wheel of a car and get far, far away from here.

For all of this dreaming, the first time she sees an Imperator up close is an accident, even though she’s stared at her out the window countless times. Melinda is one of the only women with power in the whole of the Citadel, in the whole _world_ in Daisy’s eyes. Her hair is short, shorter than any of the Wives’ (even Flowers’ once-short hair has grown into bouncy ringlets; she has no visions anymore, so there is no fear) and her left arm is mechanical, looking like it was crafted out of car parts. There’s gasoline-black paint smeared from eyes to hairline. She’s terrifying. She’s beautiful.

She comes to the Vault one day with a load of what Flowers disdainfully calls the Immortan’s seduction gifts, dainty slippers that the Mockingbird scoffs at. “Those wouldn’t last a day out there,” she says.

That’s supposed to be the appeal of these gifts, that’s the insult of them in truth.

They usually go hide in their bedroom once Miss Rose has brought whatever treats, but the Imperator that usually brings them is a man. This…

This is not a man. Daisy pokes her head back out. She knows she’s staring. She knows it’s rude. She knows she deserves the withering glare she receives when she gasps, “Your _arm_.”

“Daisy,” Miss Rose exclaims, aghast.

“I’m used to it,” Melinda says.

“Can I see it?” Daisy asks.

“I’m sorry,” Miss Rose says, “she’s forgotten her manners.”

Melinda raises her eyebrow. “She’s fine,” she says, surprising Miss Rose, Daisy, and all the other Wives, who’ve peered out to listen. She doesn’t smile, but she nods her yes.

So Daisy, feeling bold, steps forward. “I’m Daisy,” she says, because she doesn’t know what else to say.

“I heard,” Melinda says.

Daisy blushes. “You’re an Imperator,” she whispers. “I’ve watched you.”

“Oh?” Melinda asks, sounding amused.

Daisy nods. “I didn’t realize you’d be so…” She trails off, staring at Melinda’s arm,at the intricate mechanics of it. She’s never seen anything quite so fine, all the gears and springs and things she doesn’t even know the names of. It’s thrilling.

“I suppose it’s not what you’re used to,” Melinda says. Her voice is flat enough it’s not clear how she feels about this, but she’s allowing it.

“No,” Daisy says. “We don’t see much here at all.” She means to sound bold when she says it, but she sounds small instead.

Something about it softens Melinda, though, just slightly. “No,” she says.

“What’s it like, driving?” Daisy asks in a rush.

“I’ve told you, Daisy,” Flowers says, emerging from the bedroom with arms folded over her chest because she can’t not. “It’s a greater freedom than you will know in this place.”

Daisy huffs. “I want to know from _her_ ,” she says, suddenly petulant.

“Please forgive them!” Jemma exclaims, rushing out and grabbing Daisy’s hand to soften the shock of having spoken to an Imperator. “They’re always bickering, but really it’s nothing serious.”

Melinda smirks, just slightly, and with hands also joined, Kara and the Mockingbird wander out to survey the scene. They look at Melinda less with awe and more with curiosity, intense and almost challenging. The Mockingbird looks at her like an equal.

“And these two?” Melinda asks, surveying them back.

“What about us?” the Mockingbird asks, her chin jutting out.

“Oh!” Jemma exclaims. “Forgive me, we ought to have… that’s Daisy, Flowers, I’m Jemma, that’s Mockingbird and Kara.”

Melinda looks amused. “How formal,” she says.

“Not so,” the Mockingbird replies, “we could’ve done a curtsy.”

“That’d be _too_ formal,” Melinda says.

 

* * *

 

Jemma is sulking in the bathing pool that night. She’s felt odd since the Imperator visited, making Daisy all starry-eyed and rhapsodic and…

The Mockingbird slides in beside her, unceremoniously splashing. “You seem mad, precious,” she says with a smirk.

“No,” Jemma huffs. “Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.” She wraps her arms around her knees.

“Daisy’s busy,” the Mockingbird says, “if you wanted to talk about…”

‘I just feel so odd!” Jemma exclaims. “Daisy, the way she looked at the Imperator…”

“You’re jealous,” the Mockingbird decides. “It’s cute. You’re not used to feeling like you had to compete for her attention in that way.”

Jemma frowns. “Maybe,” she says.

The Mockingbird sighs, pulling Jemma’s head to rest on her shoulder. “You’re jealous,” she repeats. “It’s okay, that’s normal.”

“Jealous?” Flowers asks, sitting in the tub across from them.

“Jemma wishes Daisy hadn’t been so wild about the Imperator,” the Mockingbird explains wryly.

“Oh,” Flowers says, shrugging. “Hey, Daisy!”

“What?” Daisy asks, skipping over with Kara in tow.

“Are you in love with Melinda?” Flowers asks.

“No,” Daisy says, laughing.

“Are you in love with Jemma?”

“Yes,” Daisy says.

“See?” Flowers enthuses, splashing Jemma. “She’s all yours.”

“You’re yours,” Jemma rushes, eyes wide.

“And I’m yours,” Daisy insists, stripping and sliding into the pool on Jemma’s other side, taking her hand. After a moment Kara follows suit, smiling faintly as she draws into herself. “I think we all belong to each other, but especially I’m Jemma’s, I always have been.”

Jemma’s gaze drops to Daisy’s hands. “Me too,” she says.

Miss Rose, on the other side of the Vault, watches then, feeling glad of their closeness and sad because of it all at once.

 

* * *

 

It’s later that night, pitch-dark, when Daisy rolls over in bed and nudges Jemma awake. “Jemma,” she whispers, “Jemma, please wake up.”

Jemma does, drowsily turning and blinking. “What is it?” she asks. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Daisy says. “I… I was just thinking. I feel so awful about worrying you earlier. Can I make it up to you?”

“How?” Jemma asks, feeling very confused and not just in a sleepy way.

“Well,” Daisy says, leaning close to kiss Jemma’s throat, “I thought maybe I could...if we were very quiet…” She cups one of Jemma’s breasts in her hand. “I’d like to touch you like a proper lover should.”

Jemma swallows heavily, and she opens her mouth to reply, but then she thinks better of it and just nods, touching Daisy's cheek.

They’re close as Daisy rubs Jemma between her legs, gentle and insistent. Every time Jemma starts to whimper, Daisy kisses her or she puts her hand over Jemma’s mouth; after a while Jemma kisses Daisy’s palm, and after a while of that Daisy slides her thumb between Jemma’s lips. It’s a surprise, but Jemma hums, sucking on each of Daisy’s fingers as she offers them.

Enough rubbing and Jemma whines sharply, going stiff with the effort not to scream. She realizes all at once that she’s never come to this point before, that she’s never truly been satisfied. Daisy didn’t take, she gave, and that…

“My turn,” Jemma whispers. She’s never going to be greedy with Daisy, never ever.

The others all hear, of course, but they don’t mind. They understand.

 

* * *

 

Something shifts in the Wives once Jemma and Daisy have been intimate. There’s no discussion of it, but it’s unavoidable: the two of them have always been physically affectionate, but it’s stronger now. They sit at each other’s sides, hold each other’s hands, give up even the pretense of having separate beds. Kara smiles at them distantly (all of her smiles have been distant since she first went with the Immortan and the others can’t say anything to wake her up) and the Mockingbird hovers protectively and most interesting, Flowers realizes that she too has jealousy. She’s always loved her sisters, but not until now did she realize how much.

But then, why would she have envisioned Daisy like that, all those years (has it been years?) ago, if it wasn’t true, real love? If that hadn’t been the real reason for her being here?

And really, it’s not just Daisy, strong bold Daisy. It’s Jemma with her arcane knowledge, the Mockingbird so glowing and wild, sweet Kara she wants to protect from everything.

She hates that this revelation surprises her.

She hates that she knows she’s the odd one out, that it’s Jemma and Daisy, Kara and the Mockingbird, and then her, sad wistful tragic Flowers.

She hates that this is inevitable.

 

* * *

 

He’s come for Kara twelve times and each time she returns acting like she’s drunk.

“He tells me I understand him,” she says.

(Even if what the Mockingbird says is true and Kara used to be 33, waving her leader’s gun around, she’s never done anything dark enough to put her on par with a warlord.)

“He tells me I’m lucky, that nowhere else would I be so loved,” she says.

(He means because of her scars, because she wouldn’t be thought beautiful in the old world, but her sisters know better.)

“He tells me I’m fragile and lovely,” she says.

(Both things are true, but they’re not linked like he means. She’s not lovely _because_ she’s fragile, her value is not her breakability.)

She doesn’t see or hear what happens to the others somehow. She doesn’t see the handprints on Daisy’s cheeks, the bruises on Jemma’s hips; she doesn’t hear Flowers’ agonized cries, the thuds of the Mockingbird being thrown around.

Even Miss Rose doesn’t understand why he’s taking this slow approach. He’s never been soft with anyone before and it unnerves her.

Finally it’s Jemma who says it. “He fancies her Persephone,” she says. “He wants to give her cause to stay with him in the Underworld. To trick instead of forcing.”

Miss Rose frowns because she knows it’s true.

 

* * *

 

 

Daisy has been sick every morning for a week. They’ve all noticed, even Kara in her dreamy haze, but they’re too scared to say anything lest they make it real.

Finally Miss Rose has no choice but to call in the doctor. That’s what he is really - amongst themselves that’s what they say, because they refuse to call him the Organic Mechanic and equate themselves with cars that someone can rummage around in. He comes and Jemma stays by Daisy’s side the whole time, gives her a hand to hold, and by the time he’s gone Daisy is in tears.

“Daisy…” Miss Rose begins, hesitant.

“Don’t,” Daisy shrieks, pushing her away with an arm. “You delivered us to him, you act like our mother but it’s true what he calls you, you’re a madam, you’d throw us to the wolves to keep yourself safe.”

“Daisy,” Jemma whispers, reaching for her girl’s wrist.

“No,” Daisy shouts, “she’s raised us up too smart for our own good, too smart to be his _breeding stock_ , and these are the consequences. I have a bit of him _inside_ me and I can’t just wash it away.”

“Daisy,” Flowers hums, moving off of her bed to go to her.

“It’s no wonder I’ve been sick!” Daisy exclaims. “I can’t stand knowing I’m his, that I could’ve pretended until now that I’m not but now I’m tied to him forever, him and his _spawn_.”

“Daisy,” the Mockingbird hesitates, frowning.

“He’ll never let me go!” Daisy screams, dropping to her knees, her palms flat on the ground.

“Daisy,” says Kara softly.

“What,” Daisy spits.

“Daisy, the… it’s shaking,” Kara murmurs, fearful, reaching for the Mockingbird’s hand. “Is that an…”

“It’s not just the Earth,” Flowers says.

Indeed, the rumbles are strongest where Daisy is touching the ground directly. Jemma kneels by her side and whimpers, startled by the truth of this.

“It’s like you said,” the Mockingbird intones, awed. “Like you did before.”

“It’s you?” Kara asks. “You’re making that?”

Daisy stares up at her, wide-eyed. “I haven’t done this in years,” she says, sounding scared. “I didn’t know I still could, I don’t know _how_ I’m…”

“Well, you are,” Miss Rose says softly. “And this is not for him to learn.” She looks each girl in the eye solemnly, ending on Kara. “He mustn’t hear of it.”

Kara frowns, like she’s thinking very seriously about something.

 

* * *

 

Immortan Ward appears a day later, throwing open the Vault door with a jolly laugh. It’s so unlike him that it’s unsettling.

“Where is my pure-and-sweet?” he calls, stepping into the center of the room. The girls scatter, hugging the walls, except for Daisy herself, who stays seated at the piano, tensing up.

“What brings you here?” Miss Rose asks, warily eying him.

“I mean to congratulate my Daisy pure-and-sweet,” he says with an eerie smile. He comes to stand behind her, then hoists her up from under the arms without warning. She cries out, but she disguises it as surprise and he doesn’t notice anyway. “My very best Daisy, who carries my heir inside her.”

Daisy bites down hard on her lips to keep from protesting.

“My Daisy pure-and-sweet,” he repeats, “my most beautiful vessel.” He wraps arms around her from behind, rest one hand on her stomach. “Take note, my Wives. You should be so blessed.”

“It hurts,” Daisy whispers.

“That pain is sacred,” he tells her seriously. “Some pain to preclude the most wonderful gift.” He lifts her hair from her neck, kisses possessively. “Since my Daisy is with child, her only duty is to rest. How good my sweet Persephone will be to start to do _her_ duty, then.” As he speaks he crosses to where Kara stands trembling, and Daisy falls back to the piano bench with a thud.

The instant the Immortan touches Kara,though, hands gripping the tops of her shoulders tight enough that she whimpers, the Mockingbird hurls herself across the room at him, her war cry loud enough to make Miss Rose jump. “Filthy trash!” she shouts, making to yank him off of Kara. “You’ve already broken everything else in the world, why do you have to break her, too?”

She accompanies this with a methodical pummeling, striking his chest,then his throat. The other girls stare in awe: they all talk against the Immortan, of course they do, but they’ve never tried fighting back. It makes sense that the Mockingbird is the first to do.

“You can’t do to her what you do to us!” she shrieks, kicking him sharp in between his legs so he drops to the ground. “She’s the last clean thing left in this hellhole, no thanks to all of your _brainwashing_.”

Kara, by this point, has run to Flowers, crying and shaking; Jemma has magnetized to her Daisy.

“You’re _sick_ ,” the Mockingbird wails, punching and kicking wherever she can. She’s out of practice, but she’s already bloodied his nose, knocked a tooth onto the floor. “You can’t get by without dragging us with you.”

They all think for a second that it’s over, she’s won something, but with a roar Ward springs up, more nimbly than a man with all of his ornamentation ought, and he throws her to the ground. “How _dare_ you,” he shouts, his voice raspy. “You _lying bitch_.”

And it happens so fast -

His foot raises up -

He slams it against her knee -

The only thing that drowns out the sick crunch of bone is the Mockingbird’s shrill scream -

He’s back at the door, holding his bruised crotch. “I’ll send the Mechanic,” he says.”And I’ll be back for my Persephone soon enough.”

Jemma and Daisy run to the Mockingbird, fretting and fussing, and though Miss Rose is crying, she hurries into the bedroom to turn down the bed.

“I’m going to kill him,” Jemma says.

“Not if I get there first,” Daisy mutters.

 

* * *

 

The Mockingbird’s knee is broken.

Only Jemma can keep up with all of the special words for it ( _patella_ and _fibula_ and _anterior cruciate ligament_ ) but they all know what it means. It means she’s, they’re, stuck.

The Organic Mechanic tells her, at least, that she ought not to exert herself at least for the first few weeks, which is his coy way of saying the Immortan ought not to visit her. She feels bad for celebrating this reprieve, though, because she knows it will be taken out on Jemma and Flowers.

And Kara. He’s still going to come for Kara, delicate sweet Kara, and it will all have been for naught.

She stays in bed at first - Jemma offers to fashion a crutch, but it sounds too, too humiliating just yet - and her sisters take turns keeping her company. And that is all that can be done, it seems.


	6. life is hard living as a ghost when all I try to do is touch you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Kara gives herself to the Mockingbird and just like that they are all each other's; the Imperator is asked a serious question.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw violence inflicted by both outside forces and oneself.

She gets restless easily, they all come to realize this. Her fingers play an imaginary keyboard, her good leg jumps, she sits up against pillows and then pulls them away to flop. She sleeps fitfully, her body tossing and turning but he injured leg staying still and propped up.

Sometimes when the Wives are bleeding, they like to make forts. It’s based on a story Miss Rose tells, one she has a note of on her left ankle: centuries ago, millennia even (though they all have difficulty conceptualizing a thousand of anything), the women would shut themselves away when they were bleeding, unclean in the men’s eyes. Red tents, sometimes. So now the girls build tents, sometimes. They hang sheets from shelves and chairs and the piano and they lay in piles, reading stories, telling them. Jemma and Daisy kiss lazily sometimes.

This month the Mockingbird cannot join them in their red tent, but she doesn’t tell them not to build it. Miss Rose, whose body is too creaky to get in the tent, is there to keep her company, and she has books, too.

The others’ voices sound so merry, though. Even Daisy, who is not bleeding since she carries the Immortan’s child, is laughing with them. It stings worse than expected.

Miss Rose has been asleep near an hour and the Mockingbird has been trying to read the same page at least half that time when her mattress dips and she looks up to see Kara kneeling at the foot of the bed. “Am I disturbing you?” Kara asks sweetly.

“No,” the Mockingbird says. “Aren’t you busy?”

Kara shakes her head. “They sent me here,” she admits. “I had an idea, but I was mooning over it until they insisted.”

“Oh?”

Kara scoots closer, her eyes wide. “I was thinking,” she says hesitantly. “Thinking that maybe, maybe I ought to, to give myself to you so the Immortan can’t have me for true.”

The Mockingbird’s jaw drops. “Kara…”

“I mean,” Kara whispers, “he’s coming for me anyway. I know that. You and Daisy are both laid up, and…”

“You don’t have to throw yourself to the wolves,” the Mockingbird murmurs.

“I’m not,” Kara says. “He’s going to take what he wants, I know that. But I don’t have to let him have everything.”

The Mockingbird frown, watching her - what? What is Kara to her beyond a sister and wife? She knows there’s more, that it wasn’t a coincidence she got herself nearly killed on Kara’s account. But this…

“You honor me,” she whispers.

“I mean it,” Kara insists. “I want this to be yours. I want to be yours.”

“Thank you,” the Mockingbird whispers. “I want that too.”

Kara beams, leaning forward to kiss the Mockingbird softly. “Don’t worry about moving too much,” she says, “I just… Flowers says you can put your fingers inside me?”

The Mockingbird tilts her head. “I could,” she says. “You could ride my good leg, too.”

“I want your fingers,” Kara says. “If that’s all right? I want it to really count.”

“That’s all right,” the Mockingbird agrees. “Come up and sit on my leg anyway, though. You’ll be close that way.”

Kara does, straddling the Mockingbird’s left thigh precariously. “Thank you Bi - may I call you Birdie?”

It’s an unexpected request, and the Mockingbird giggles before she says, “Yes, I’d like that.”

“Birdie,” Kara repeats. She moves her Birdie’s hand to her, where Flowers said to touch, and she smiles.

 

* * *

 

The others stay in their red tent all night.

“Let’s play a game,” Flowers suggests.

Daisy tilts her head.

“It would be better if there was something to drink,” Flowers admits, “but whoever begins says they’ve never done something, and if you’ve done something, you…” She falters, because there really isn’t a good alternative.

“We could play with kisses,” Daisy suggests casually. Off Jemma’s confused expression, she explains, “Each time one of us has to take a penalty, we kiss.”

“I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” Flowers says, judging by the way her heart leaps.

Daisy and Jemma glance at each other like they’re consulting. “I think it is,” Daisy says. “We’re each other’s.”

Flowers’ eyes go wide. “All of us?”

“I don’t see why not,” Daisy decides. She sits up and leans forward with a shy smile. “May I?”

Flowers closes the distance and puts her lips to Daisy’s before she can second-guess it, and Jemma gets pulled up to join them moments later. The original game is already forgotten.

 

* * *

 

He comes for Kara two nights later, or his men do anyway, dragging her out of bed while the others pretend to be asleep. As soon as they’re gone, though, the girls crowd around the Mockingbird’s bed, not saying anything but clutching each other tight. Jemma curls up with her head resting on the Mockingbird’s thigh, Daisy drapes across Jemma’s side, Flowers sits tucked up at the foot of the bed.

When Kara screams from down the hall, they all burrow close. When she screams again, Miss Rose drags a chair to the bed and joins them, grabbing Flowers’ hand. When the door creaks open they all flinch in unison, but Kara is alone, limping into the bedroom with tears on her cheeks, bruises across her shoulders and throat, and curiously a smile on her face.

“He had me,” she reports, her voice shaking, “but he knows I was not his to _take_. He saw the proof.” The love bites on Kara’s neck and breasts, the fingernail marks on her thighs, all left by the Mockingbird. Hearing this, she actually blushes and reaches to pull Kara into their pile.

“Smallest victory,” Flowers muses.

But two nights after that, the Organic Mechanic visits unexpectedly, lugging a box behind him. “Immortan’s concerned ‘bout your health,” he says.

“He’s the biggest hazard to it,” Jemma mutters to Daisy.

“What’s that?” he calls.

“Nothing,” Jemma says sweetly.

“You first, then,” he demands, waving her forward. When she doesn’t move, he grabs her wrist and drags her. She squirms enough to make the others proud, but he manages to still her long enough to slide some metal contraption up between her legs and fasten it with a click.

She knows what this is. She knows from books. It’s a chastity belt.

 

* * *

 

“I’m sorry,” Kara whispers later that night.

They’ve pushed two of the other beds up next to the Mockingbird’s and they’re melted into one big lump, Kara and Flowers on one side, Jemma and Daisy on the other. It’s odd trying to stay close and bumping up against cold metal, five belts glinting around five girls’ hips, invading their personal space, but they’re all directing their anger in one specific direction that’s not Kara’s.

The Mockingbird lifts Kara up to meet her eyes, then to kiss her. “It’s not your fault, lovely,” she says firmly. “He could’ve done this to us ages ago.”

Daisy reaches across for Kara’s hand, smiling tiredly. “If he had any eye for clues, he’d have realized Jem and I have been together for ages,” she says. “And maybe he did, I don’t know. He just got angry that we have each other.”

“It could be worse,” Jemma pipes up. “He could’ve split us up.”

“Shudder to think,” Flowers agrees.

“And we, we can still be close,” Jemma continues, trying to be hopeful. “He hasn’t taken that way.”

“Yet,” Daisy sighs.

“He won’t,” Jemma says, steely. “Not ever.”

 

* * *

 

The next visitor to the Vault is, surprising everyone, Melinda. She comes with a crate of fruit and porcelain dishes, expecting perhaps to field more eager questions, and when she’s met only with one set of blinking eyes she’s almost disappointed.

“Imperator,” says Jemma, even more formal than before. “I need to speak to you.”

Melinda raises an eyebrow, meaning _go on_.

“We’ve got to get out of here,” Jemma continues, voice low. “It isn’t safe.”

Melinda frowns.

“We’re dying here,” Jemma adds, even softer. “I fear the next time he lays with the Mockingbird, he really will kill her. Daisy, the child will be made into a soldier or a breeder with no regard for…”

“I’m sorry,” Melinda mutters, and she turns on her heel to go.

It seems that might be that.

 

* * *

 

They aren’t allowed sharp things in the Vault, not really. There are no proper tools or instruments of any sort, only small needles for their sewing, but Immortan Ward made a grave mistake in giving them fine dishes. He meant to highlight what luxury they live in, but he didn’t realize that porcelain can break.

The others are still in bed, but Jemma is up, staring out the window at the sunrise, one of the only beautiful things left in the world. She likes to stay up and watch it after nights with the Immortan, to remind herself that there are things even he can’t wreck.

Last night he took her, and last night he reminded her of something else, something obvious: anything locked on can be unlocked. The damn belts have been depressing everyone, even Flowers who always has something smug to say, and none of them need that.

Her first objective is to get some porcelain shards free. She overestimated her own strength, though, and the plate only breaks when she slams it against the ground loud enough to wake everyone.

Daisy dashes in, worry written on her face. “Jemma! What happened?”

“I did it on purpose,” Jemma says gleefully, already scrambling to pick the pieces up off the floor. “Don’t come closer till it’s safe.”

Daisy frowns, but she stays in one place. “Why did you break it?” she asks.

Jemma pulls out a decently-sized shard. “Have you ever picked locks?” she asks in kind.

“Not any important ones,” Daisy says cautiously.

“I’m going to pick this one,” Jemma declares, and starts fiddling with the lock on her belt, determined and fast and reckless.

“Careful,” Daisy says. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

“I’ll be fine,” Jemma mutters. Little bits of porcelain dust cover her fingers, but the lock stays put.

“Jemma,” Daisy murmurs. “I don’t think…”

“It’s got to,” Jemma cries. She picks up a larger shard and starts furiously sawing at the lock, at whatever she can. She nicks her thumb, then the space between her thumb and forefinger, and her eyes water, but she doesn’t stop.

“Jemma,” Daisy repeats, louder this time. “ _Stop_. You’re hurt.”

“I’ve got to fix it,” Jemma insists, and drops the porcelain, she reaches between her legs in a frenzy, starts trying to pry the jaws of the belt apart and just cutting her fingers more on the cruel teeth there. “We can’t _live_ like this -”

“Jemma!” Daisy shouts. She rushes forward careful as she can and stills Jemma’s hands. “Stop,” she says again. “All you’re doing is hurting yourself. You don’t - you _shouldn’t_.”

Jemma lets out a sob, like she just now realized she was crying. “I’m so sorry,” she says. “I’m so -”

“Shush,” Daisy interrupts, kissing Jemma on the mouth. “You didn’t do anything wrong. Nobody thinks that.”

Jemma crumples to her knees and Daisy sinks with her. “What good am I?” she cries into Daisy’s shoulder. “What good is anything I’ve read if it can’t get us out?”

“Jemma, that’s not your responsibility,” Daisy whispers. “We all want out, but it’s not your fault we’re here.”

Jemma swallows heavily. “I just can’t abide the thought of you trying to have a child here,” she says, even though it’s not quite an explanation. “Around _that_.”

“Thank you,” Daisy says. “But hurting yourself won’t change anything.” She nuzzles against Jemma’s forehead. “Tell me how I can fix up your hands?”

 

* * *

 

All of her sisters say this is not her fault. They say the Immortan could have sprung this horror on them for any reason, that it’s awful but they don’t hold it against her. It was important what she did, they all say so. They don’t blame…

Kara blames herself.

Daisy says he could’ve caught her and Jemma just as easy, but what Daisy doesn’t say is he wouldn’t have lashed out at her in the same way. Daisy is his favorite, his beguiling little charmer, his truest wife (in his eyes, anyway), while Kara is his beautiful monster, the pretty ugly thing he only valued as much as he could corrupt. She took his greatest pleasure and they were all punished for it.

He’s come for Jemma already, since they were belted in. Their pleasure (“pleasure”) is his and his alone to unlock, that’s the message. Jemma is brave and angry and they all hear her efforts to get the belt off and her tears when she can’t. They all get in bed with Birdie and gently kiss it away.

Kara is not brave, but she too is angry.

She’s in the bathing pool when she sees a little shard of porcelain that Jemma missed cleaning up, and she considers it thoughtfully. Jemma saw getting the belts off as a way out, but Kara knows there’s another. She just has to break so much she won’t be wanted anymore.

It’s easy to draw the porcelain over her arms in zig-zagging lines. It’s easy to watch her skin break. Blood doesn’t upset her. She knows blood.

Flowers also knows blood, though, and when she sees the bathwater going red around Kara she shrieks. She runs over and drops to her knees, exclaiming, “Kara, beloved, what have you done?”

“If I’m destroyed he won’t want me,” Kara mumbles. Her bloody arms are floating, her head is lolling against the rim of the tub.

“If you’re destroyed,” Flowers repeats, making a sad noise in her throat. “Beloved, if you destroy yourself…”

“What is it?” Jemma asks, rushing over.

“I want out,” Kara says, sounding drowsy.

“Get her pulled out of the pool,” Jemma shouts, running for the wound-dressing supplies. She bustles past Daisy, bids her follow, hands her bandages and asks, “Can you tear some?”

Flowers, meanwhile, is lifting Kara out and supporting her over to the nearest chair. Her own hands are already covered in Kara’s blood. “Don’t do things like that,” she murmurs, kissing Kara’s cheek.

Jemma’s own hands are still covered in bandages, so she talks Daisy and Flowers through dressing Kara’s wounds. None of them hurry to say anything about the action.

But finally Daisy asks, “Were you trying…?”

Kara shuts her eyes, shrugs slightly. “No,” she says. “Maybe. I don’t…”

Jemma sighs. “We can talk more tomorrow,” she says. “But Kara? We’d miss you too much.”

 

* * *

 

The next time that Melinda comes, it’s with pure cotton by the bolt. Jemma is again the only one to meet her, and this time Melinda asks, “Are you the ambassador?” It’s probably a joke.

“No,” Jemma snaps. “I’m the lucky one.” Before she can think better of it she grabs Melinda’s flesh-and-blood wrist and drags her toward the bedroom, where her sister-wives are all convalescing.

“What are you doing?” Melinda asks.

“I present myself as the first exhibit,” Jemma spits out, echoing old language of curation. “Cuts on my hands from trying to saw and then rip off this bloody belt we’ve all been forced into, because what good would we be as _sex dolls_ if he didn’t control our access to sex?”

Melinda frowns.

“Exhibit two,” Jemma continues, growing louder. “Flowers, currently adorned with bruises from her last violent encounter with the swine.”

“It’s not unusual, either,” Flowers says. She’s propped up in bed with a book of myths in her lap.

“Exhibit three,” Jemma declares. “Daisy, in a day of heavy sickness from the monster in her belly. Exhibit four, the Mockingbird, still laid up with a shattered knee, her gift for trying to defend exhibit five, Kara, who’s recovering from a _suicide attempt._ ”

“You weren’t joking,” Melinda says softly.

“What?” Daisy calls, making a face.

“You really are going to die here,” Melinda mutters.

Jemma folds her arms defiantly. “Well, no, why would I joke about that?”

Melinda is silent for a moment, then she crosses to where Miss Rose sits, laying a metal hand on her chair. “There might be a way,” she says.

“A way?” Kara echoes, her voice weak.

“A way out,” Melinda explains. “That one’s asked before.” She nods at Jemma, possibly fondly (it’s hard to tell with her).

“You could get us out of here?” Daisy asks, eyes going wide.

“Where would we go?” Flowers adds, sounding suspicious.

“ _Lǜsè dì Dìfāng_ ,” Melinda whispers. “The Green Place. My home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Lǜsè dì Dìfāng_ ; "the Green Place


	7. handsome as handsome does, she’ll be alright, bruising as bruising ain’t under blue light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The spirit of rebellion comes over the Wives in waves; even the worst news only cements their desire to run.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw slurs, violence, pregnancy, etc.

“ _Lǜsè dì Dìfāng_ ,” the Mockingbird repeats later, sounding cautious. “Do you think she’s lying?”

“Why would the Imperator lie?” Jemma asks, flopping back on the bed. “She wouldn’t have hesitated to tell us it could be done if it was a lie.”

“I think it sounds wonderful,” Daisy says dreamily. “ _Lǜsè dì Dìfāng_. It sounds like magic.”

“You say it very well,” the Mockingbird declares.

Daisy’s shoulders roll, and she smiles, pleased. The words feel somehow familiar, even if she’s never heard them before in her life, knows they’re not anything she _would_ have done. “Thank you,” she says.

“They must keep some of the old ways,” the Mockingbird continues thoughtfully. “If they still have other tongues.” All of the others nod along: Jemma can read a bit of Latin and stumble through what Miss Rose says are the “romance languages” if they come up in stories she’s reading, and sometimes Kara gets a flash of something in another language that she doesn’t know why she knows, but mostly it’s the Mockingbird who’s an authority on such matters, who has any practice with the few other languages still found out in the Wasteland.

“It would be wonderful to see a tree,” Flowers says, sounding oddly shy.

Daisy grins and rubs Flowers’ shoulder fondly. “You’ll love it,” she assures, because since she’s the only of them to ever have seen, albeit from a distance, this is _her_ small area of expertise. “All that life.”

“We don’t even know it’ll work,” the Mockingbird says, frowning like she doesn’t want to let herself get caught up dreaming.

“But there’s a chance,” Kara whispers. “That’s more than nothing.”

 

* * *

 

The fourth time Melinda visits, Flowers is lounging on top of the piano like a side character in one of the old stories Miss Rose tells for fun sometimes, all crime and glamour and lust, and spots her first. “What, no gifts today?” she calls lazily. “No toys to keep us complacent?”

“Nothing to spit on?” the Mockingbird adds from the lounge chair she managed to limp her way over to with Kara’s help, smirking with an ironic sort of air.

Melinda laughs, just once, a short, abrupt sound. “He didn’t send me,” she says. “I came to talk.”

All of them perk up: Flowers sits straight up, the Mockingbird tilts her head inquisitively, Kara leans forward with her elbow on the piano keys (a low, mismatched chord sounds), Jemma and Daisy run out of the bedroom with eyes wide (they’ve been kissing). Even Miss Rose seems more excited.

“Does this mean it’s viable?” Kara asks softly. “You’ll be able to…”

“Maybe,” Melinda says. “May I sit?” She asks that of Miss Rose out of deference to her tenuous position.

“Bring the Imperator a chair,” Miss Rose says faintly, waving in Jemma and Daisy’s direction.

Daisy is excused from physical labor because of her condition, so Jemma pulls the chair from her medical corner over and sets in before Melinda, murmuring polite nothings.

“Stop treating me like an extension of him,” Melinda mutters, sounding harsher than she intends. “Like if you don’t handle me right you’ll be in trouble.”

Jemma blushes. The Imperator has no way of knowing this, of course, but doing things _right_ , being _good_ , especially where other women are concerned, is one of her biggest weaknesses, and Daisy squeezes her hand to remind her that she is. “All right, Imperator,” Jemma whispers.

“Melinda,” corrects Melinda. “If we leave, I give up the title I never wanted in the first place.”

“Melinda,” Jemma repeats, and all of the others repeat after her quietly, tasting the syllables.

“How are you going to do it?” Daisy asks suddenly. “Get us out?”

“Carefully,” Melinda says, smirking.

“I mean what are you going to do?” Daisy insists.

“We’ll have to sneak you out of here,” Melinda says.

“Obviously,” the Mockingbird mutters, and Kara bats at her as if to chide her.

Melinda rolls her eyes. “I’ll need a bit more time to work on the logistics,” she continues. “Especially…” She pauses to frown at the Mockingbird’s casted leg (Flowers has drawn a pattern of wildflowers and highly stylized birds on the plaster in charcoal).

“I’m not broken,” the Mockingbird grumbles.

“But you _are_ hurt,” Jemma pipes up. “We don’t want you to get hurt worse.”

“So we wait till I trust my legs underneath me,” the Mockingbird says.

“It could be months,” Jemma frets.

“It won’t be,” the Mockingbird hisses.

“So cross that off the to-do list,” Flowers says cheerily.

Melinda nods tersely. “As soon as possible, then,” she says. “It won’t be an easy trip.”

“Nobody thought it would,” Daisy says, almost petulantly.

“I didn’t mean it as an insult,” Melinda says. She doesn’t sound apologetic, or at least not deferential, and oddly the Wives all respect her for it. “It’s just a fact.”

“Well, everyone else, they know the world some,” Jemma says. “And I’m a quick learner.”

Melinda raises an eyebrow, feeling skeptical. “Can any of you drive?”

“I can,” Flowers offers, just as Daisy says, “I think I could pick it up.”

“So one of you,” Melinda says.

Daisy flinches. “I was just trying to help,” she mumbles, and Jemma squeezes her hand this time, comforting as she can be.

“I know,” Jemma whispers.

“Can any of you fight?” Melinda asks.

“I used to be pretty good,” the Mockingbird offers.

“She knocked one of that schlanger’s teeth out,” Daisy says proudly.

“And this is what I got for it,” the Mockingbird snarks, glancing down at her leg.

Melinda nods again. “Anyone else?”

Daisy and Flowers shrug, Jemma shakes her head shyly. Kara whispers, “33 knew how.”

“33?”

“Who I was in my old life,” Kara says softly. “Me before this place. It’s all gone, what I knew, but sometimes it comes back.” She’s timid enough saying this that Melinda doesn’t press, she just moves on.

“Well, you should all practice if you can manage without alerting him,” Melinda instructs. “I don’t see a way out that doesn’t have a little violence.”

Jemma chews her lip. “Of course,” she says, sounding distressed. “But once we’re there?”

“Once we’re there?” Melinda echoes.

“In the Green Place,” Jemma murmurs. “There will be no violence there?”

Melinda smiles nostalgically. It’s an odd look for her, not bad, just different. “ _Zài Hěnduō Mǔqīn_ , the Many Mothers, they’re tough, but they don’t hurt for pleasure,” she explains.

“ _Zài Hěnduō Mǔqīn_ ,” Daisy repeats, feeling her stomach flip over for reasons she doesn’t understand.

“The women I grew up with,” Melinda explains. “They will care for us if we -”

“If we get to them,” the Mockingbird supplies.

“We will,” Flowers says. “I know it.”

 

* * *

 

The next night, the Immortan summons Jemma. Daisy crawls into bed with the Mockingbird and frets silently while Flowers braids and unbraids Kara’s hair and Miss Rose reads them some of the history that’s tattooed on her skin. It’s the usual formula.

Jemma has a black eye when she returns.

“Jemma!” Miss Rose cries, immediately scurrying for ice. “Precious, what happened?”

“He didn’t find out about our plans, did he?” Kara asks nervously.

Jemma shakes her head and giggles. “I wasn’t in the moment correctly,” she explains. “He got offended. Asked me why I was smiling.”

The Mockingbird frowns. “What did you say?”

“I told him I was just lying back and thinking of England,” Jemma says, beaming. “That’s as much as any of his approved reading said about what he does to us, really, but I guess it didn’t please him to hear it spat back with a grin.”

Flowers nods. “He doesn’t usually like smiling,” she says softly. “I used to think he wanted me to like what he does to me. That he was trying to, make me happy is the wrong way to say it, but I thought it would please him to know he pleased me.”

Daisy looks up, frowning. “He likes that with me,” she murmurs. “He rages sometimes when I don’t fawn over him.”

“You’re not me, though,” Flowers says, smirking but somehow sadly. “You’re the favorite and I’m the freak. It’s complicated, because he thinks he knows what I like, but I’m not supposed to show I like it. Showing I like it, or pretending to, means he has to do the things _more_.”

“What he does is a little different with all of us, I think,” the Mockingbird says. “He lies with precious out of duty, proper-like. She’s his arranged marriage.”

‘He gets off on knowing I’m not getting off,” Jemma says, nodding sadly. “I’m too clean to enjoy it, I think he thinks. He likes thinking.”

“Sounds right,” the Mockingbird says. “Then Daisy, she’s his one true love.” Daisy shudders and the Mockingbird pets her soothingly. “He thinks. He loves the idea of her being his.”

Daisy frowns. “He wants to pretend it’s romance,” she agrees. “He wants to win me over and as long as I’m here he’ll keep trying.” Her tone makes it clear how she feels about this.

“Then along comes Flowers,” the Mockingbird continues. “She’s wild, he thinks, he can push the boundaries with this one. I’m a spoil of war, to be repeatedly conquered and punished. And Kara…”

Kara makes a funny noise. “I’m an experiment,” she says. “An idea, I’m clay to be molded.”

Flowers squeezes Kara’s shoulder. “We’re all toys to him, one way or another,” she says. “The paragon of virtue, the purest romance, the pain slut, the punching bag, the plaything.”

Miss Rose coughs. She’s been silent through this whole analysis, because she doesn’t like pushing her thoughts on the girls but she can’t stop herself now. “I’m sorry,” she murmurs when they look her way. “You’re all right. The only thing I could have done to protect you was kill the Immortan where he stood, and for doing nothing I’m no better than a brothel-keep.”

All of the girls conference silently. “That’s not really so,” Daisy says finally. “Did you choose to be here?”

“No,” Miss Rose says, “but I didn’t choose to try to leave either.” She sounds disgruntled, and only belatedly does she remember to hand Jemma the ice she’s wrapped up for her eye.

“You forgot that you could,” Jemma whispers.

Miss Rose frowns. “You’ve never done, and you still saw it,” she says. “I’m sorry.”

“You’ve nothing to be sorry for,” Jemma says. “You’ve been as much a prisoner as us.”

“A toy in your own right,” Flowers says, and the others nod.

Except Daisy. “We aren’t toys,” she says. “We’re not _things_.”

The others all freeze. “Daisy?” Jemma whispers.

“We’re not,” Daisy insists. “If he convinces us we are, that that’s _all_ we are, he’s won.”

The Mockingbird smiles wanly. “Till we make it out, it sort of feels that way.”

Daisy shakes her head. “Not yet,” she says. “We’ve got a plan -”

“Melinda’s got a plan,” Flowers corrects.

“There’s a plan,” Daisy amends. “There’s a plan and we’ve got each other and _we are not things_.”

 

* * *

 

Every day the Mockingbird spends a little more time on her feet. At first she just walks from her bed to the piano, to the chair by the bookshelf, to the window. When they bleed, Flowers and Daisy make the entrance to their tent especially wide, Jemma builds a throne of pillows and the chaise longue, and Kara helps the Mockingbird in, gentle as she can. She’s the queen of their little fort and they all treat her as such: Daisy rubs her shoulders and back, Jemma brings a basin in to wash her hair and Flowers brushes it, Kara leads the others in kissing all of her exposed skin. They talk with touching instead of words, because sometimes it’s easier to say what they want that way, especially together.

It’s peaceful enough that they all fall asleep piled on the pillows, Flowers curled at Jemma’s back who’s draped over the Mockingbird’s lap who’s holding Kara’s hand tight who’s got her legs tangled with Daisy’s. For at least a few hours, they lose sight of the hell they’ve still got to escape.

The Mockingbird wakes before sunrise when she feels Jemma stirring, and she turns as much as she can without waking the others. “Precious?” she whispers, her voice rough from going unused the better part of the day. “What’s the matter?”

“I feel horrible,” Jemma says in a rush, like it’s been wanting to be said for hours and days. “I lied, Birdie, I… I haven’t bled.”

The Mockingbird startles. She’s still growing used to hearing Kara’s nickname for her on the others’ tongues, but it’s caught on and she doesn’t really mind. For now, she’s more alarmed by Jemma’s news. “Maybe you just haven’t begun,” she says, hating how strained it sounds.

Jemma shakes her head. “I know I won’t,” she murmurs. “I just know I’ve got him in me.”

“I’m sorry,” the Mockingbird says.

“I can’t,” Jemma chokes out. “I didn’t know till I felt it for true, but this baby will kill me.”

“Jemma,” the Mockingbird hums, distressed.

“I’m not being dramatic,” Jemma frets. “I really do think… I’m not strong. My spine is all wrong, there was the surgery when I was young, maybe more than one, I don’t know. They invested in me, but I… I’m afraid I’ll trade my life for his spawn’s.”

“No,” the Mockingbird says. “You can’t. You won’t. In the Green Place…”

“I don’t want to plan right now, Birdie,” Jemma says despairingly. “I’m…”

The Mockingbird sighs and kisses Jemma’s shoulder. “I’m sorry,” she repeats.

“You’re fine,” Jemma whispers. “It’s going to be fine one way or another, right?”

 

* * *

 

“Something is wrong with precious,” Flowers murmurs.

Daisy frowns. Jemma is sitting on her bed knitting, which is something she only does when she’s really nervous and her hands can’t entirely be trusted with anything that’s not mechanical. “I know, I’m worried about her,” she says, then: “Was that you _knowing_?”

Flowers shakes her head. “Not quite, it’s just intuition and reading faces,” she says. “But the intuition is nice. I haven’t had it for a while, not this strong. Something might be coming back.”

“Yeah,” Daisy hums. She squeezes Flowers’ hand before crossing to where Jemma’s sat and softly she asks, “Can I join?”

“Yes,” Jemma says, but her knitting needles keep clicking.

“You’re upset,” Daisy whispers.

“Yes,” Jemma repeats, frowning.

“Do you need to talk about it?” Daisy presses. She knows even better than the others that Jemma won’t share unless she knows well and sure that she’s allowed to, that it won’t be a burden.

“No,” Jemma says, but Daisy meets her eyes and she can’t lie to her looking her straight-on like that. “I didn’t really bleed this month and I’m almost positive I’m with… and I feel so foolish because all this time I’ve been telling you that your being is awful but it will be all right, you’ll be all right, but I… I know, I just _feel_ it, that if I…”

Daisy takes a breath and reaches for Jemma’s hand, feeling at once overwhelmed (at the rush of information) and anxious (at the content of the information) and relieved (that the information has been shared). “Jemma, you’re fine,” she says. “You’re fine to worry and I’m not - what did you think? That I’d be offended somehow?”

Jemma whimpers miserably, searching for the words. “I suppose,” she finally says. “I just - I didn’t want to make you worry when you’ve got your own - and I didn’t want you to think me hypocritical for getting upset when I tried to help you to not…”

“It’s all right,” Daisy croons. She takes the knitting and sets it aside fully so she can pull Jemma into an embrace. “It’s going to be all right once we’re at the Green Place.”

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Kara comes back properly bruised, the Mockingbird is out of bed so fast she stumbles over her own feet.

“What did he  _ do _ ,” she roars, taking Kara’s hands. “I’m going to  _ kill him _ .”

Kara frowns at her stomach, where the most prominent bruises are blooming. “He said I must not  _ want  _ his child, that I’m frigid,” she says. 

“You don’t,” Daisy and Jemma say in unison.

“I don’t!” Kara cries. “I don’t, but he knows it and he was so angry. He said I was - what’s a dyke?”

Miss Rose frowns. “It’s a cruel name for a woman who likes other women sexually,” she sighs. “A bit antiquated, now.”

“Why is it cruel?” Kara says. “I don’t care that he beat me for it, I like other women sexually. I don’t want to want to lay with him.”

“That’s all well and good,” Miss Rose says. “Some of the most wonderful women I’ve ever known liked women. You’re all wonderful. But Immortan Ward and all of his, they’re the sort of man who think not liking men, in Ward’s case not liking  _ him _ , is wrong, unnatural even.”

Flowers rolls her eyes. “There have always been people who look for reasons to hate other people and make them feel small,” she says darkly. “The Immortan has added incentives of sadism and arrogance.”

“He’s awful,” Kara mumbles.

“He is,” Daisy says, “but we won’t be here for long. We’re going to  _ Lǜsè dì Dìfāng  _ and we’ll be safe and free and happy and -”

“And beloved,” Flowers whispers, “you’re so far from frigid. You’re warm and gorgeous and so wonderful.”

“Thank you,” Kara replies, sinking back into the Mockingbird’s waiting embrace.”I’m not ashamed of loving you all…”

“But it’s still horrible you’ve hurt for it,” Jemma says. “I’m sorry.”

Kara smiles shakily. “You’re all right,” she says, then, to distract them, “Miss Rose, will you tell us about those women? The ones you knew, who…”

Miss Rose nods. “Let’s all climb into bed,” she suggests, “and I’ll tell you all I remember.”


	8. while surviving this attack I soon learned how to battle back

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> As the Wives prepare to leave, Miss Rose buoys them with new true stories.

 The first story Miss Rose tells is this.

Before the world was dead all the way, when some of the bombs had hit but there were still some real cities standing, it was anarchy for true. The people who had power in the old world had to jockey for it all over again, and like they’ve always done, the worst of men made up excuses to distract the people from their own horrific truths. Most let themselves be swayed, lulled into false complacency.

Not Peg.

Margaret Carter (the people in Miss Rose’s stories still have real surnames! It’s a luxury) was a proper English lady on the outside (“English like me?” Jemma asks, and Miss Rose nods, for whatever it means in this mess of a countryless world, Jemma has the lilting accent of a good English girl) and a military mastermind on the inside. She’d been raised posh and she joined the real world a good two years (back when the word _years_ really meant something) before it fully ended, starting in one of the last-ditch government organizations, the little cabals of the brave and foolish dedicated to making some sense of the chaos and upholding some semblance of the law. She could have done many things, but she was stuck in the office, doing menial feminine things.

(“But this was the old world,” Daisy frets. “Didn’t women have more…”

“More,” Miss Rose says softly. “Not enough.”)

Peg may have been an office girl by title, but she soon proved herself useful. Someone in the department needed their so-called arm candy (Miss Rose has to explain the euphemism, and none of them like it but they understand why it’s used in this story) to have some brains and nerve, and she stepped up to the plate (they pause to analyze the metaphor, somewhat distastefully because while they know _of_ baseball they don’t see the appeal). She played that role often and well enough that she got a few more chances from it, and when the time came, when she got caught in the thick of it, she proved she could hold her own in a fight. Before anyone knew it she was outsmarting and outpunching enemies and peers and even her superiors; as such, she managed to secure a position of at least minimal authority in the department before the riots broke out.

(Jemma knows about the riots. They circle Miss Rose’s left thumb in tiny fresh letters, she remembers asking about them the day Miss Rose wrote them down. Daisy has heard about them, mentioned by errant Warboys. Flowers and the Mockingbird and Kara are familiar with the idea of riots to different degrees, so Miss Rose has to pause to remind them of exactly what happened to take the world from something half-civilized to the ruin it is now.)

Peg’s boss (he was different than a leader, Miss Rose explains to assuage Kara’s alarm, he oversaw what Peg did but let her have her own choices, more as time went on) was killed early on, exploding quite literally in a bit of low-level nuclear warfare, but not before privately trusting Peg with his legacy (and his secret weapons stash). She should have had some security, but before anyone could do anything, mobilize for the relief efforts that were what the remains of the city needed (Peg’s suggestion, supported by at least some of her colleagues, Danny who they know is doomed because Miss Rose says) or get anything turned around, another one of her fellow officers named himself successor.

She’d known this man, this Jack, for a while, but what she didn’t know was he’d already been bought out by the men who’d soon be the warlords. Promises of power intoxicated him quickly, and he was glad to work with these men to ensure his own position in the ashes. Anyone who didn’t kowtow was excised from the force, but before he could get rid of her, Peg quit.

It was a scandal, her departure, how she went out making her dissenting opinions known, how she didn’t just fade quietly into the background; she should have shot up the place on her way out, taken the suckers down, but it wouldn’t have done anything really. More would-be warlords would have popped up in their place, it wouldn’t have mattered. Nothing that was done in the remains cities mattered.

It was with that thought in mind that Peg prepared to hightail it out of there and to the Wasteland, accompanied by her trusted few. They were an odd bunch, not necessarily the sort you’d look at and think “apocalyptic survivors” but then, there you were.

There was Avdotya “call me Dot” Ulyanova, who in her old life had been a spy and assassin, the most likely to outlast a hellish landscape. (“But she changed,” Kara says, half a question.)

There was Angel Martinelli, who in her old life had been a seemingly-guileless lounge singer, who had the special distinction of being Peg’s girl. (“They’re like us!” Jemma beams.)

There was Violet - often Vi - O’Malley, who in her old life had been a nurse, who had been dead Danny’s girlfriend, who had inherited his utility vehicle upon his passing. (“Another for the garden!” Flowers cries.)

And there was Miss Rose herself, Rose Roberts, who in her old life had been another office girl alongside Peg, working in the same department and equally underestimated. (“They were wrong,” Daisy declares.)

 

* * *

 

The Mockingbird has been long enough on her feet that her mood is lifted. Not all the way, of course, but enough that one morning when the sun rises and they all wake and start to go about their day, she limps over to the piano and starts to play.

She was never formally taught, of course. Like everyone on the outside, she’d thought instruments of that sort to be extinct. But she knows songs that aren’t in the two sheaves of what Miss Rose calls “classical music,” she knows songs with words to them that she somehow picks out accompaniment to, songs about women named Delilah and Emmylou and Jolene and Laura and Rhiannon, songs with smatterings of other languages in their text that she pronounces flawlessly no matter what, songs about walking a thousand miles and rolling in the deep (“the deep what?” Daisy asks) and being the only girl in the world and having bad blood. The others learn these from her, but mostly it’s the Mockingbird who fills them with music.

She hasn’t played or sung since she got hurt, though. She hasn’t been happy enough, and when she’s sad her songs go quiet. It’s simple. Her songs are tied to her heart, Kara says in whispers when the others muse about when will the Mockingbird return to the piano. It’s not very scientific (that said with a fond roll of her eyes in Jemma’s direction) but it’s the truth.

Today, though, the Mockingbird sits and strikes a chord. She’s not launching straightaway into one of the songs with complicated fingerwork, presumably because she’s out of practice. “ _Something has changed within me, something is not the same_ ,” she sings softly. “ _I’m through with playing by the rules of someone else’s game_.”

This must be one of her ballads, and it gets the others’ attention. Jemma and Daisy, splashing each other in the bath, pause and rest their heads along the rim of the tub. Flowers comes to lay herself out on top of the piano elegantly, with an encouraging smile. Kara curls into herself on the chaise longue and watches. Miss Rose even looks up from her sewing.

“ _Too late for second-guessing, too late to go back to sleep,_ ” the Mockingbird continues, her voice getting stronger. “ _It’s time to trust my instincts, close my eyes and leap! It’s time to try defying gravity.”_

They listen through the whole song. It’s different than a lot of them she sings, it’s got a bit more weight to it somehow. Their Mockingbird always has a lovely voice, but this is the loveliest of all, and once she’s proclaimed she’s defying gravity eight more times Jemma and Kara actually burst into applause. Miss Rose is crying, but only just.

“You’re beautiful,” Daisy says solemnly.

“I don’t want you to be so sad your song goes away ever again,” Kara murmurs.

“Will you sing like that in the Green Place?” Jemma asks.

The Mockingbird nods. “And better,” she promises.

Flowers rolls onto her back, dreamily. “ _Look around, look around at how lucky we are to be alive right now_ ,” she sings almost in a murmur. Flowers doesn’t sing, not often, so this is something of a revelation. Wherever it came from, it’s a blessing.

 

* * *

 

The old world wasn’t perfect, Miss Rose keeps reminding them, and Avdotya Ulyanova was proof of this. She was a parentless daughter of Russia, with only sparse memories of her before-time; what it was before was something she called “boarding school for murder.” (Jemma especially knows about boarding schools from books, and they’d seemed magical places full of friendship and learning and affluence, but this is entirely different, she can tell.) She didn’t ever say how she’d wound up there and maybe she didn’t even know, but what it meant was that from an early age she was trained to do awful things with no remorse. Maim, fight, kill for whoever asked her to. They called her the Widow, she seduced some but not all of her victims in the process.

(Kara frowns at this. It sounds like what she’s put together of her mostly-forgotten past life as 33. The Mockingbird pets her hair soothingly.)

By the time she wound up in these parts, though, Avdotya was a woman grown, the world’s most lethal actress sent after those with power and greed. She believed in what she did (“but how did she know she meant it?” Kara whispers) and she did it very, very well. She killed more than one of Peg’s fellow officers of the law and other important figures of local so-called commerce and government before anyone got the drop on her.

(“But she became a hero, didn’t she?” Kara frets.

“Sort of,” Miss Rose says, smirking.)

Every attack went on a list, every detail written down, and Peg wound up doing much of the writing, which meant that she analyzed it all as she went. The case finally fell to her officially - most of the men couldn’t be fussed, but she was intrigued. She observed patterns in Avdotya’s behavior, in her targets, and it should have served to make her wary of criminals but instead what happened was she slowly became wary of her fellows in charge. Once they actually met, it got… complicated.

(“But wasn’t Peg already promised to her Angel?” Jemma asks sweetly. “Did they have an arrangement like we do?”

“It wasn’t complicated like that, entirely,” Miss Rose says smirking.)

Peg was the golden child, the virtuous citizen, but her allegiance was to an idea of a world that was already dying. Avdotya was a killer for profit, when it all shook out, but her leaders (hers, Miss Rose clarifies, were truly leaders) had sent her after people who were evil for true. Is killing evil men still an evil act?

Peg wasn’t so sure after a while. When Avdotya chased the same men more than once, Peg took notice, and when the men turned out to be cozied up to the heads of government, Peg decided she had other priorities. Her colleagues all expected her to muck up being the primary on Avdotya’s case, so none of them so much as blinked when she said she’d lost her. They accepted her professed ignorance when she shrugged off Avdotya’s subsequent illegal behavior.

(“Didn’t it pain her?” Daisy asks earnestly. “Playing dumb like that so often?”

Miss Rose nods, just as the Mockingbird says, “It pains us, it must’ve.”)

In that short period after the riots, though, when the chaos was ramping up, letters started appearing in Peg’s mail (they all pause to revel in the thought of it: _letters! Mail!)_ and though unsigned the message was always clear: _when you need me, I’ll be here._

So Peg decided it was time to go, and there Avdotya was.

“Helluva team-up,” she smirked, leaning against the doorjamb outside Peg’s apartment. “Hey, Angel.”

“Who the hell is this?” Angel, sitting at the breakfast table, squeaked.

“The Widow,” Peg sighed. “Avdotya Ulyanova.”

“Call me Dot.”

 

* * *

 

Melinda’s next appearance is even more clandestine. She slips into the Vault, nodding her approval at the Mockingbird coaching the others through drills (once, she knows, it might have been called kickboxing; that sounds so archaic and luxurious).

“I’ve been able to squirrel away some guns,” she says when they notice her.

“Squirrel?” Kara echoes, her head tilted (the Mockingbird waves her forward and whispers an explanation).

“Most of you know how to use them, right?” Melinda continues.

“Point and shoot,” Daisy says cheerfully, because she’s never done it but it doesn’t sound hard.

“It’s something like that, anyway,” Melinda sighs. She takes her usual seat and the others come settle around her, cross-legged like children at storytime; from her corner Miss Rose glances up from her mending and smiles patiently.

“There won’t be any time to practice, or any way,” Flowers muses. “Not before we’re out of here.”

“They hear gunshots from in here, they’ll get suspicious,” the Mockingbird agrees, looking annoyed. They can be quiet about many things, but practicing with firearms isn’t likely one of them.

“We can pick it up,” Daisy declares.

“We’ll have to,” Jemma sighs.

Melinda nods, setting off a chain reaction of nodding from all of them. Except Kara, who waits until they’re all staring at her and mumbles, “I don’t like the idea of us killing every last man we come across.”

“They work for the Immortan, they’re assholes who deserve to die,” Jemma mutters.

“We don’t know that straightaway,” Kara says, frowning. “We kill without question, doesn’t that make us just as, as complicit?”

Flowers frowns. “We have to question, but if we question too long we end up dead, too,” she says.

The Mockingbird nods uneasily. “There’s shooting, and then there’s shooting to kill,” she points out, looking between her girls uneasily.

“If they shoot at us we shoot back,” Melinda says. She knows she ought to yell, to tell them to snap out of their peaceful fantasy, but she can’t bring herself to add to their anxiety.

“If they’re the Immortan, we shoot first,” Daisy concludes, folding her arms.

“It’s just… I want there to be less hurt in the Green Place,” Kara whispers.

“There will be,” Melinda promises, and it doesn’t even feel like a lie.

 

* * *

 

Back in the old world (they know this from books and from the stories Miss Rose tells from her tattoos or just from her memories, but it’s still novel to hear about) people could make a living by hobbies. There were people whose job was to write down stories whose job was to draw pictures, whose job was to rub people all over, whose job was to sing songs.

Angel was one of those lucky souls who was classed as a performer. She’d acted as long as that was a viable profession (“was she in _pictures_?” asks Flowers, who’s even more enamored of the notion of old-world celebrity culture than the others; Miss Rose nods slyly) and when all the satellites and screens died out and everyone got local again, she took to the stage and crooned at drunks, all painted lips and glamorous dresses.

Peg had turned up at Angel’s nightclub on a case and gotten starry-eyed immediately. Danny (the hero-friend, slated for death, they remind themselves every time he’s brought up so it doesn’t come as a nasty surprise later) teased her mercilessly until she finally did something about it and asked Angel out. It was exactly, Miss Rose reports, the storybook courtship the girls crave, playful banter and life-saving and soft kisses (she doesn’t go into this in detail, it would be odd, these are people she _knew_ , but they can all imagine). They were living together by the year’s end.

Angel wasn’t a fighter like Peg, not exactly intimidating or tough. She used old terms like “gun moll” and “dame” about herself, smirking; she called herself “soft femme” and Peg “hard femme,” occasionally “soft butch.” (Miss Rose has to stop to explain these terms, femme and butch and hard and soft. The girls are very interested in these definitions, these matters of aesthetic like they haven’t got the luxury of claiming themselves, all confined as they are with nothing but flimsy slippers and black charcoal and white gauze.) She was a sweet sort of girl, but she had a mouth on her (this description makes the Wives, especially Flowers and the Mockingbird who’ve been accused of this very thing often, smile) and she was thoroughly compassionate. “Good for bandaging your wounds,” she’d say to Peg.

And she _was_ brave. She wasn’t a fighter for true, but she didn’t flinch at fights either. She balanced the others in that way, the sunshine in their otherwise dark days.

 

* * *

 

“We need you to bring us things other than guns,” Jemma says flatly the next time Melinda sneaks in.

Melinda raises an eyebrow in that way that they’ve learned means _go on_.

“We haven’t got real shoes,” Daisy exclaims. “Not that’d last, out there.”

Flowers nods, sliding one of her slippers off and waving it at Melinda. “Lap dogs can’t run in the wild,” she says a bit cryptically.

“I had some real ones once,” the Mockingbird huffs. “So’d they. Don’t know when he took them.”

Melinda frowns. “I’ll try,” she says. “They’re hard to come by.”

“We don’t need to be _fashion plates_ ,” Daisy snarks. (It’s another term of Angel’s from the stories, and she relishes the chance to imitate it.) “We just need to be able to function outside.”

“I know that,” Melinda says, but she’s smiling slightly. They’re in better moods if they’ll argue. “I’ll try.”

“And we need out of _these_ ,” Jemma says, sniffing distastefully at her chastity belt.

“I don’t suppose he keeps the key somewhere you could pickpocket it,” the Mockingbird says, leaning back against Kara.

Melinda actually laughs at that. “Not likely,” she says. “I’ll think of something.”

“Thank you,” Miss Rose says softly. “For risking your life for them.”


	9. and so to lead by example I had to get out before I was trampled

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> With Miss Rose's story brought to its end, the girls begin to follow Melinda into the Wasteland.

Before the world died, Violet had been a nurse, and that’s how she met Danny. His leg had gotten smashed in (what they all realized later was a taste of things to come) a mob attack on the utilities building downtown and she’d supervised his rehabilitation.

(“How romantic,” Jemma sighs wistfully. She has a soft spot for that kind of story, probably because she fancies herself a bit of a doctor.)

After the world died, Violet got called a medic instead, and what she did was more life-saving and less just life-bettering. She got pulled in by the law enforcement when the riots started and she kept on helping; even after Danny got hit in the heart by some hooligan’s crossbow bolt she kept on. They had their swift lover’s goodbye, at the very least; she’d been on the scene tending the wounded and was miraculously able to rush to his side to hold him in his last breathing seconds, whisper labored “I love you”s.

(“How romantic,” Daisy coos. She likes the idea of proper goodbyes, probably because she knows more acutely than the others that she must be missing some proper goodbyes in her own life story.)

Somewhere in there Violet and Peg had developed the kind of camaraderie that comes from stitching up someone’s wounds, so when Peg got her idea to split she was quick to recruit Violet and Violet was quick to agree to it. She wasn’t a survivalist type, exactly, but someone with medical know-how was always handy in survival situations.

“And I guess you owe Danny?” Violet had asked wryly.

“If you want to look at it that way,” Peg had said, “But I’d prefer to think of it as I enjoy your company and would just as soon you not get stuck here.”

So out to the desert they went, and what they did out there was survive and try to help others to do. What they did, although they didn’t mean it, was rebel.

 

* * *

 

“What do you think it’ll be like?” Kara asks, not for the first time. They’re piled in bed, more comfortable now that the Mockingbird’s cast has been sawed off though still hindered by the belts, and Miss Rose has already gone to sleep. It’s peaceful, but not too. They’re close enough to leaving, though, that the talk of what’s to come is more tangible, a little less of a fever dream.

“Plants,” Flowers says immediately, rolling onto her stomach and swinging her legs in the air. “Things that _grow_.”

Jemma smiles fondly. “We can help life to grow for the right reasons,” she says, one hand ghosting over her belly.

“It’ll be magic,” Daisy declares. “Sleeping under the stars, maybe.”

“I’ll teach you all how to light a real fire,” Flowers says. “Not just one of the tiny teakettle fires we can manage in here.”

“We can learn how to do everything real,” Jemma says.

“Depending on no-one but ourselves,” Kara adds, eyes shining.

“Melinda’s people will teach us what we need to know,” the Mockingbird says confidently. “We’ll be all right. It’ll be all right.”

Daisy snuggles closer to Jemma, suddenly frowning. “If it’s such a wonder, if they’re so great of people, why has she stayed away from them for so long?” she asks.

It’s a dark question, one they’ve all considered and haven’t had the nerve to ask. Why would a woman with such power stay in chains? She’s not here of her own volition, they all figured this out early on in their acquaintance, but it hasn’t all added up.

Finally, timidly, Kara suggests, “Maybe she didn’t realize she had the option.”

“Maybe,” Jemma agrees softly.

“It’s been, what did she say? Seven-thousand eight-hundred-some days?” Flowers pipes up.

“Seven-thousand eight-hundred sixty-three,” Jemma says.

“Seven-thousand eight-hundred sixty-three,” Flowers repeats. “That long since she… she must’ve been taken like us, right?”

“I dunno what else could be the case?” the Mockingbird exclaims. “She didn’t come of her own choosing. She doesn’t like it here.”

“She got taken and she’s been stuck here, and maybe she’s tried to get out and maybe she hasn’t,” Flowers says. “Maybe she’s imagined it but never tried it. I know I’ve dreamed of it. Tried to figure out if we had enough we could stack to get up to the window to get us out.”

“Wondered if the window’s even big enough to push ourselves out of,” the Mockingbird frowns.

“Wondered if there’d be a way to climb down or if we’d just have to jump and end it all,” Jemma mutters, and Daisy nuzzles against her consolingly.

“My point is,” Flowers says, a bit impatiently, “maybe she just needed to be reminded she could do this.”

“Maybe it’s easier with a group,” Kara muses. “She won’t be alone. That, that makes a difference.”

“It does,” Daisy agrees. “We’re not alone. We won’t _be_ alone ever again, unless we want to.”

 

* * *

 

“Where did you fit in, Miss Rose?” Jemma asks.

Well.

Miss Rose is hesitant to speak of herself, but she gives a list of truths, anyway, and Jemma especially can imagine it written out point by point, it's so orderly.

  * She had worked in the same office as Peg, like she’s explained; mostly she did things like answer the phone or dispatch even though (this surprises the girls, who know her more as a mother and less as a fighter) she could shoot and punch just as well as the men. The old world, she reminds them, was better, not good.
  * She had taken a series of lovers in her day, back when it was easier (not easy) to find men who weren’t toxic. She enjoyed them well enough, but she hadn’t been too sad to leave any of them behind.
  * In the group, her role was somewhat secretarial as well. She planned, she consulted the map, she kept track of the supplies. “Team Mom,” Dot called her, and she didn’t mind it; she was a little older than Peg, probably older than Dot though nobody knew, and Angel and Violet were practically babies. It wasn’t because of that she played the mother figure, though. That was just her temperament.



These things are easy to tell. These she shares when asked.

The messy part of the story comes later, the next night when they’re all laid in bed, Flowers curled around Kara draped over the Mockingbird leaning into Jemma cuddled up to Daisy, with Miss Rose wrapped in a blanket in her chair. It’s a bit safer-feeling, it seems snug.

The five women were settled into a routine out in the Wasteland. They stayed together (well, Dot always volunteered to scout and retrieve) and they traveled, they got into fights but mostly only with other itinerant bands of folk. More than once Peg got tangled up in fights with men trying to lay claim on one of them (usually they went after Angel or Violet, the little pretty ones, but it never ended well for them) and Rose herself could go furious over supply thieves. And Dot? Dot was just vicious, full stop. Together they carved out a little bit of desert for themselves.

The problem was that the warlords - now definitely warlords, no mistaking it, Peg’s former boss was left in charge of the flaming remains of the city until he stopped being useful to his superiors - didn’t take kindly to challenges, real or perceived, and these independent women (Miss Rose says this with a small smirk; there’d been a song, she explains, about independent women, famous but she couldn’t remember enough of it to pass on anymore) were challenges.

This was back in Gideon’s day, of course, so he and his Warboys, the old guard, turned one of their Wastelander savaging parties into a full-scale attack on Peg’s circle. Not a fair fight at all, despite the women’s best efforts.

Dot was last seen facedown in the sand, bleeding from more than one wound.

Angel had disappeared entirely.

Violet was held splayed by two of the men while another interrogated her.

Peg was scuffling with a cadre of Warboys, outnumbered but refusing to admit it.

And Rose? “I put up a fight,” she says, sighs more like, “but they managed to knock me out, get me in one of their Rigs, haul me off here. And here I’ve stayed.”

They’re all silent for a minute, but finally Flowers asks, “Were you a Wife?”

Miss Rose shakes her head. “I was past my prime even then,” she says with a self-deprecating smirk, “and hardly desirable. The old Immortan did things differently than Ward, besides. One after the other, his Wives, not all at once.” She pauses to collect herself. “I was to be a proper influence. The youngest of the children in the Citadel, they needed a mother.”

“Like a violent Peter Pan,” Jemma whispers. “You were his Wendy Darling.”

Miss Rose nods, proud of Jemma’s reference. “There weren’t many children, of course, but Warboys did sometimes… breed,” she sniffs. “Or other children appeared from somewhere in the Citadel. There were the boys too little even to be War Pups, the girls who…”

“The girls like me,” Jemma says quietly. “Was my father one of those scum, then?”

“Nobody seemed to know,” Miss Rose says. “Proverbial baby in a basket, you were, left in the Citadel with your spine all warped, your parents could’ve been anyone here. They could fix that, wasn’t the strangest of things out here, and then you could be…”

“Used,” Jemma supplies.

“I wasn’t sure what they wanted, at first,” Miss Rose admits. “After the surgeries, though, you were my only responsibility. I didn’t know why they wanted you a proper lady, but they did, and I knew I was going to raise you right, do this one thing right.”

Jemma lifts her head, offering a smile. “You did, Miss Rose,” she promises. “Thank you.”

“I should have done more,” Miss Rose says. “But I’m _so_ proud of my girls.”

 

* * *

 

The morning they’re to sneak out, Kara wakes to Flowers shaking her shoulder, whispering, “Beloved, you’re only having a bad dream.”

Kara groans, rubbing her eyes. “I don’t feel good,” she murmurs.

“ _Милый_ ,” the Mockingbird whispers, pressing a kiss to Kara’s skin. “Do you think you’re…”

Kara shakes her head, whimpering. “I don’t think we should go,” she whispers. “It’s, it’s bad here but it’ll be worse, it’ll be…”

“We’ll be safe,” Daisy says. “We’ll have Melinda and z _ài Hěnduō Mǔqīn_ , we’ll have our Miss Rose.”

“You’ll have Melinda and the Many Mothers,” Miss Rose says.

“What do you mean?” Kara asks, her voice trembling. She’s sitting straight up now, anxious.

“I’m not going with you,” Miss Rose says.

“ _What_?” Daisy shouts. “No!”

“I’m not going,” Miss Rose repeats. “I’ll only be trouble for you on the journey, and I can’t imagine I’d survive very well out there, not anymore.”

Jemma bursts into tears, loud hiccuping sobs, and immediately Daisy begins rubbing her shoulders. “How are we supposed to get on without you?” Jemma exclaims, gulping. “We… we’ll be lost, who will tell us stories, who will guide us?”

The Mockingbird sits up and moves to grab Jemma’s hand, glaring daggers at Miss Rose. Of all of the Wives, Jemma is easily the closest to their guardian, because there isn’t a time left in Jemma’s head where Miss Rose _isn’t_ , probably. “It’ll be all right, precious,” she whispers. “We’ll have each other, we’ll have Melinda and all of hers.”

Jemma sniffles. “Why won’t you just _come_?” she begs.

Miss Rose shakes her head. “I’m not built for the world outside, not anymore,” she says gently. “I’ve done my job well. You’re all ready for this.”

It’s Kara, seeming just as shook up, who speaks next. “How do you know?” she asks quietly. “We’re okay here with you, but out there is so… what if I get lost again?”

“Kara,” Miss Rose says firmly. “You won’t. Your sisters won’t let you, and you won’t let herself.” She looks around at her other pseudo-daughters. “That won’t happen to any of you. You’re all so much stronger than you know.”

Jemma breaks away to fling herself at Miss Rose, still crying. “I don’t want to leave you,” she weeps.

“You’ll be fine,” Miss Rose soothes, stroking Jemma’s hair. “You’ll save the world, all of you.”

One by one, the others wedge in around Miss Rose too, and they’ve all started to cry a bit.”You’ve been so much,” Daisy whispers into Miss Rose’s chest.

“Thank you for saving us,” Flowers says.

“You’re the best kind of woman,” the Mockingbird murmurs.

They stay like that longer perhaps than they ought before Miss Rose says, “Isn’t there one last thing you wanted to say?”

Daisy pulls back, eyes gleaming. “Come on,” she says to the others. “Let’s scribble.”

 

* * *

 

Daisy and Kara especially are shy about their handwriting, but it’s for this reason they’ve taken the lead on their final project. Melinda snuck jars of dark, runny black paint into the Vault for them to leave the Immortan messages. They’ll have to fingerpaint, there were no brushes to be had, but it’s worth it.

In the corner where the first aid kit lives (lived, it’s coming with them) Jemma writes: _our minds and bodies are our own._

Around the bathing pool Daisy writes: _our babies will not be warlords._

In the entry, almost in the exact spot she stood when she received her name, Flowers writes: _we will not be broken._

On her tarnished piano, the Mockingbird writes: _who killed the world?_

And on the wall in their bedroom, so anyone will see it if they look in that direction, Kara writes decisively: _we are not things_.

When Melinda comes to collect them (the Warboys are screaming and rallying, none are on duty that can’t be easily dispatched) she nods approvingly. “Important,” she observes.

“Take care of them,” Miss Rose says, her hands wrapped around Melinda’s flesh-and-blood-and-bone one.

“I will,” Melinda says. “I have what you asked for.”

“What’s that, Miss Rose?” Jemma asks.

Melinda smiles, actually a bit wry, and reaches to hand Miss Rose a small transistor radio and double-barreled rifle. “Defense,” she says plainly.

“Oh, I mean to go firmly on the offense,” Miss Rose smirks, taking the items and promptly setting them behind her. She hugs each girl in turn, then.

“You’ll be fine,” she assures Jemma. “See the world you’ve read so much about.”

“You’ve got everything at your fingertips,” she tells Daisy, smiling. “Literally.”

“Plant a garden for me,” she murmurs to Flowers. “Plant gardens for all of us.”

“You’re exactly the woman you were meant to be,” she says to the Mockingbird. “I just know it.”

“Trust yourself, beloved,” she encourages Kara. “You deserve every last happiness.”

They adjust their sad gauze garments (little bras that cover them like seashells might a mermaid, loosely-wrapped sarong skirts, a top with sleeves and a hood for Flowers, a mock-pashmina wrapped around Jemma’s shoulders and upper back to help cover the worst of her scar, a dress that looks more like a pillowcase to cover Daisy’s belly bump, one fingerless glove each for Kara and the Mockingbird) and, after giving one last goodbye to Miss Rose, they creep out of the Vault and down the corridor after Melinda. Each and every one of them looks around in a mix of awe (at what’s been sitting just outside their door all along) and terror (that it could all still go away, that all it’d take to unravel everything is one errant Warboy).

Melinda’s Rig is in the garage, waiting to hit the road after a tune-up and refuel: she’s meant to be on a mission for the Immortan - trading supplies for weapons from the Bullet Farm and fuel from Gas Town (Kara flinches, but Melinda assures her they won’t go anywhere near the place for true) - and in that way her venturing out is not unusual. This isn’t a perfect plan, but it’s the best one they’ll pull off.

They’re quiet, communicating in furtive glances and squeezes of their hands, their silent language of implications, until they reach the garage. Melinda glances in to make sure all’s clear before waving the renegade ex-Wives in, and Daisy can’t help but gasp. Not even she’s been this close before.

“It’s so busy,” she whispers. “All the tools, it’s like a big toybox. What’s that?”

“A wrench,” Melinda says, amused.

“And that?”

“A distributor,” Flowers says.

“And that?”

“It’s an intake pipe,” the Mockingbird says. “We can learn this all later, c’mon!”

Melinda waves them forward. “You’ll be in under the cab till we’re out of Warboy territory,” she says. “Once we’re clear, we can rearrange.”

Jemma nods. “Much space down there?”

Melinda sketches out the dimensions in the air, shrugging. “Some.”

“What’re you thinking, Jem?” Daisy asks.

“You should get in first,” Jemma says nodding apologetically to Daisy’s belly. “Then I will, then Flowers and Kara, then Birdie last so we’ll all be there to steady her if she needs it.”

“Practical,” Melinda observes, probably as a compliment. “Let’s get on with it, then. Ward expects me to get sent off with fanfare.”

“The things you got for us?” the Mockingbird asks.

“No time,” Melinda says. “We’ll regroup once we’re in safer space.” This isn’t the news they were hoping for, she can tell, and it means she very hesitantly reaches out to touch Daisy’s shoulder (she's nearest) in what she hopes is a comforting gesture. “Promise it’s just a little bit longer. You can make it.”

Nodding resolutely, the girls enter the cab in the order Jemma designated and climb through the hatch in the floor, careful as anything. Daisy’s far enough along in her pregnancy she has to carry her belly somewhat, making faces, and Jemma kisses her cheek once they’re both settled. Kara reaches a hand up for the Mockingbird to take as she slips in and Flowers brushes the space off before the Mockingbird takes a seat.

And then, they’re off.


	10. you’ve poisoned my blood with your dirty substances now I’m done

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Melinda and the Wives' escape becomes known; the Immortan and his Warboys react.

“And I salute my Imperator Melinda,” Immortan Ward calls from his perch, the cavern opening out to the crowd where, fully bedecked in polycarbonate armor and his usual grotesque breathing apparatus, he surveys the crowd of Warboys and Wretched alike. The lucky few who dwell _in_ the Citadel are probably listening, too, but they stay in the cool inside when they can. It’s his devoted citizens looking on, listening in, Melinda thinks with distaste; at least that’s how it is in his mind. It’s the sad only truth most of them can probably remember. That’s the trick the warlords play: give the people just enough to keep them dependent (loyal, is how the Immortan describes it when he addresses the masses; compliant, is how he describes it behind their backs) but hold enough back to keep themselves at the advantage. Make this seem like the best of a series of bad, unavoidable options.

It’s not something she can fault anyone for, considering that until the Wives with their naïveté and dreams reminded her of the alternative she’d been in the same trap of thought. She’s had more reasons than most to forget that alternative, too. Her gradual pretenses of comfort and power.

But this is no time to get existential, she can hear her mother’s voice chide. (Such self-criticism usually comes in her mother’s voice, but in fairness, so does self-praise, though it’s much rarer.) Those same Wives are relying on her. She’s relying on herself.

And what if - if she, if her _àirén_ -

She doesn’t know what became of any of her people, and she doesn’t want to hope, but she’s relying on them nonetheless. Besides that, it’s too late to avoid hoping. The Wives have infected her with it.

She presses forward, getting behind the wheel of her Rig and wishing she had it soundproofed to drown out the screams of the Warboys, pidgin prayers to a made-up demon god. She knows she’s only safe if she hears everything and sleeps with one eye open, she knows there’s no good would come of ignoring it. Still, she’s going to be glad to escape it.

The roar (she can still tune out the words, frantic and terrible as they are, and right now that’s okay, it doesn’t matter what they’re saying when they get fanatical) only grows as she revs the engine: they think she’s showing off for them in a way they react well to. Really what she’s doing is signaling the girls they’re about to go. She’s not sure how much of the ugly yelling they can hear down under the cab, but they’ll be able to feel the engine reverberating through the car.

 

* * *

 

Up in the Vault, mostly removed from the chaos down below, Miss Rose just waits. She doesn’t know quite what she’s waiting for - what’s going to follow this. She realizes, once her girls are gone, that she doesn’t expect to last the night, that she expects to sacrifice herself so that they might get away. Let it be her last act in this foul world, protecting them in this final way.

Sweet Kara, a survivor if ever there was one, much less fragile than she believes.

The beautiful Mockingbird, who’d kill and die for her own, unequivocally.

Lovely odd Flowers, clever and strange and so of the world.

Brave Daisy, who’s meant for things none of them can dream, and capable of them as well.

And her dearest Jemma, with her big dreams and bigger imagination and biggest heart.

She doesn’t know what’s going to happen to them, but she knows it’ll be better. She has to believe that.

She switches the radio on and waits for news. She supposes, anyway, she’s waiting for news; that or a sign that she needs to get ready to face off. She doesn’t watch out the window, because she doesn’t want to jinx it, but she listens. At first it’s just chatter, Warboys muttering, must be some sort of group feed, but it can’t be too long into the journey before the Warboys start shouting, confused and angry. The shadows haven’t changed enough. It’s too soon. She’s suddenly anxious.

“Imperator gone rogue, she’s veered off course,” they yell.

It won’t be long now.

“Miss Rose!” Ward roars, shooting the Vault door open and storming in. “Miss Rose, where are my treasures?”

Before he gets any farther, Miss Rose meets him head-on with the rifle. “They’re gone,” she shouts, leveling the nose of the gun at him until she knows he’s read all of the writings on the walls and floors. “They took their first way out and ran, and that’s their _right_.”

Ward growls, advancing on her. “They’re my wives!” he yells. “They belong to _me_! Where else are they going to go out there? The Wasteland will wreck them.”

Miss Rose aims to shoot, just grazing his arm, between cracks in his armor. “They belong to themselves,” she hisses. “They’re not _things_. And wherever they go, it’ll be better than this. They’ll be free of you.”

Warboys come running into the room, anxious as they’re able. “Immortan!” one of them shouts. “What’s goin’ on?”

“This traitorous _bitch_ shot me!” Ward growls, pressing a hand over the wound. “She poisoned my Wives’ minds against me, loosed them on the Waste, and to add injury to insult she _shot_ me.”

“And I’ll do it again,” Miss Rose shouts, firing. One of the Warboys, a young thing she’s not seen before, jumps in front of the bullet, and it catches him in the right shoulder, but instead of crying in pain like an everyday person might he lunges to wrestle the rifle from her. She succeeds in smacking him in the face, though.

“Someone get a hold of this biddy!” Ward shrieks, sounding not unlike a child throwing a tantrum, and before Miss Rose can put up a fight another Warboy - Giyera? He, on the other hand, looks a bit familiar to her - knocks her rifle away (it looks like he shoves it without touching it, but she must be imagining that) and gets her restrained. “Hellfire,” Ward snaps at another of them with a long chain wrapped diagonally around his chest, “get Sparks to medical.”

“Sure thing, boss,” says this Hellfire (it seems a bit much for a man’s name, Miss Rose thinks, but most of these words and sounds the Warboys adopt are), and he hauls the injured Sparks off.

“Should I end her, Immortan?” Giyera asks, taciturn and cold.

War shakes his head. “We’re taking her with us.”

 

* * *

 

None of the Warboys are exactly brains, but they know the road, so it doesn’t surprise Melinda that one of them on her maintenance crew - Kebo, his name is, solid and yet oddly lithe for his size - scrambles up toward the driver’s side window to shout, “We goin’ to Gas Town?” He sounds perplexed, as much as any of the Warboys - trained out of anything but rage or elation or bloodlust or worship - are able.

“Taking a different route,” Melinda calls back, keeping her eyes on the road.

“I’ll pass it along,” he says, minutely distressed, like he doesn’t quite believe it but doesn’t know what else to do.

He’ll be a casualty of this, Melinda realizes. She doesn’t feel bad about it; he’s bought into the Immortan’s culture of slaughter and reverence, she won’t miss him and neither will the world. So many of the Immortan’s soldiers are going to fall, and she didn’t plan it that way but neither is she alarmed. That, she figures, is also a byproduct of her time here, the ability to numb herself.

Still, there’s only half a moment of peace before she’s disturbed again.

“You sure?” Kebo asks, sticking his head through the window this time.

“Never surer,” Melinda calls. That’s not a lie, even as she sees other vehicles approaching on the horizon. She couldn’t be more confident in the plan.

 

* * *

 

“Get your hands off me,” Sparks snaps, pulling away from Hellfire and storming toward the Organic Mechanic. “Bad enough I got shot by the madam. Get me a bandage and some anesthetic.”

“Sit,” the Mechanic says, frowning.

“No time,” Sparks grumbles, “we hafta get back, Immortan needs all hands to outrun her.”

“Her? What’s goin’ on?” the Mechanic asks, pressing his lips together as he tends to Sparks’ wound.

“Melinda’s gone off course,” Hellfire says eagerly. “Stole his Wives away. We gotta get them back and make her pay.” He sounds far too excited, but then that’s what is expected of him.

Another of the Warboys, paler even than the norm and hooked up to one of the blood bags, perks up. “Chasing down Melinda? When’re we leaving?”

“You’re not, Turbo,” Hellfire scoffs. “Look at you, sick as a kitten, you’re even deader than usual. You’re still takin’ blood from the drifter, no way you’ll be able to outgun the Imperator.”

Turbo glances up at the donor suspended beside him, a darker-skinned and remarkably well-built man, with an indignant huff. “I can take him with us, getting Melinda’s important, I’ll just put him on the grill and drive. I can catch her.”

“I’m driving,” Sparks shouts, grabbing a wheel off the pile.

“I’m gonna catch the Imperator, I bloody well drive!” Turbo shouts.

 

* * *

 

Jemma feels like a fool. She hadn’t thought this through, she’s never ridden in a car _and_ she’s pregnant, of course she’s going to be motion sick. She bends over her knees and tries to stay very still; the first aid kit rattles on the seat beside her.

“You’re fine, precious,” Flowers soothes, running her hand over Jemma’s back. “You’ll get used to it.”

Jemma groans. “I don’t want to,” she says. “Feeling like this is awful.”

Daisy, who’s not feeling too great herself, mumbles, “One more thing to blame him for, eh?”

“I don’t even want to think about him,” Kara mumbles.

“We don’t have to,” the Mockingbird promises, “never again.” She, in contrast, is spread out as much as she can be, her limbs splayed, to keep cool.

“Why is it so _warm_?” Jemma moans, like she hasn’t even heard anyone else speak. “It’s sticky and nasty, I think I’d be okay if not…”

“It’ll be better once we’re up there,” the Mockingbird assures.

“Wind in our hair,” Flowers agrees, trying for encouraging.

“I’m scared,” Kara says, apropos of nothing.

“Melinda will keep us safe,” Daisy declares as resolutely as possible.

But just then, something slams into the back of the Rig and all of them shriek. Kara latches onto her Birdie, tight as she can; Flowers folds over Daisy who folds over Jemma who’s still hugging her legs.

“What’s that?!” Kara shrieks.

“The Immortan must’ve figured us out,” Flowers says grimly.

 

* * *

 

“Shit,” Melinda mutters, slamming on the gas pedal. There’s a cluster of vehicles on her tail - not a surprise, she just expected she’d get a bit farther into the Waste before they caught up.

A car rams into the Rig, jostling her forward. “ _Cào nǐ zǔ zōng shí bā dài_ ,” she exclaims.

“Imperator!” Ward roars from behind. She checks her rearview - he’s still a ways back, just shouting into a megaphone. “Give me back my Wives!”

She doesn’t reply, she just guns it.

“Boss!” Kebo howls from the tank. “What are we doin’?”

“Outrunning a warlord,” Melinda mutters. She speeds up even more, but there’s a pair of cars on either side of her, glaring, prepping crossbows and shotguns alike.

“Nobody has to get hurt,” one of the Warboys calls - sounds like he could be the Organic Mechanic’s kid, if the Mechanic could be bothered to sire a kid - and it earns a round of approving jeers from the others. “Just stop your Rig and hand the girls over.”

Melinda snarls, swerving to dodge an errant bolt (it flies between the cab and the tank). They really ought to know better than to intimidate her like that, she’ll outlast them all. Then again, Warboys never seem to have much long-term memory beyond their mechanical, obsessive faith. (She hears the one that sounds like the Organic Mechanic, screaming at his friend because Ward _looked_ at him. Imagining that’s what it would take to get them excited makes her sad.)

She shifts gears, gritting her teeth. She doesn’t do more than glance at the crowds of vehicles on either side of her, but she doesn’t need to look close to know what’s going on. Backup forces have been requisitioned, from Whitehall in Gas Town, from Major Aquarius at the Bullet Farm. There are polecats, there are lancers, there’s all the trappings of a usual war party.

“Soon, _àirén_ ,” she mutters.

They’ve been in pursuit for several kilometers and she’s felt impact at least thirteen times when the trapdoor in the floor opens and Daisy pokes her head out.

“What are you doing?” Melinda yells. “Get back down there where it’s safe!”

“What’s going _on_?” Daisy shouts. “We can barely breathe, it’s getting so _hot_.”

“They’re on our asses,” Melinda calls, still staring at the road ahead. “I’m gonna head them off, but you’ve gotta stay down there till I say, you’ve gotta stay safe.” Daisy doesn’t move, so Melinda swats at her - gently, but getting her point across. “Get _down!”_

It’s shouted loud enough that Flowers reaches her arm up to tug Daisy back into the compartment and make sure the hatch is closed.

 

* * *

 

When Daisy sits back down, windblown and just a bit sullen, feeling like not for the first time she hasn’t been allowed to play with the bigger kids, Jemma paws at her blindly, just seeking her hand to hold.

“It won’t be much longer till we stop,” Daisy assures, leaning against her girl in an attempt to calm her.

“Feels like forever,” Jemma whimpers. She’s still folded over her knees, miserable.

Kara, whose head is in the Mockingbird’s lap and whose arm is holding her legs to her chest, whines disconsolately. “We should never have tried this,” she frets as more bullets ricochet off the Rig. “They’re going to kill us, or if they don’t he’ll split us up when we’re returned, or…”

“They won’t, he _won’t_ ,” Daisy says emphatically. “He can’t. I’ll kill him before I let him do that.”

“What if you can’t?” Kara exclaims, starting to hyperventilate.

“I can,” Daisy insists, her voice darker than any of them have ever heard it.

“We’re going to _Lǜsè dì Dìfāng,_ the Green Place of Many Mothers,” Flowers says solemnly. “And we’re going to be all right. I can feel it.”

Kara sniffles. “You can?”

“Feel it,” Flowers repeats. “I haven’t… my sight hasn’t, not yet, but it’s getting closer.”

The Mockingbird nods. “That’s something, anyway,” she sighs. “Shit, I wish I was up there giving those horrorshows hell. I bet Melinda needs another pair of eyes.” She gazes longingly at the hatch, reaching up to trace the lines of the door.

Before she can think about it, Daisy hits the Mockingbird’s hand away, which makes her let out a funny startled noise and makes Flowers exclaim, “Daisy!”

“I’m sorry,” Daisy says immediately, staring at her feet. “I just… Melinda sounded serious, like she meant that we ought to stay…”

“It still wasn’t nice,” Kara hums.

“I’m sorry,” Daisy repeats. “I panicked. I’m sorry.”

“Just be careful,” the Mockingbird says, sounding a bit more like she’s too exhausted to argue than anything else.

 

* * *

 

The Immortan’s car is gaining on her, and Melinda can hear her heart hammering. That’s another reason, honestly, that she’s glad the girls are hiding. She doesn’t want to alarm them.

“Let them go and I’ll let you live,” Ward shouts, his voice both deadened and amplified by his horrible mask. (Melinda has long wondered what would happen if someone were to just rip it off of him. Is it symbolic? It might be, Immortan Gideon wore one just like it. But then, it’s a bit of a wonder to her that they don’t all need filters, with the contamination that must be in the air.)

“Me, let them go?” she shouts “I’m not the one who was holding them prisoner.”

“They’re my _Wives_ , Imperator, my jewels,” he yells.

“He needs them,” shouts Crossbones, seated beside him with a rifle aimed at Melinda.

“I need them,” Ward repeats. “They satisfy me. They _know_ me.”

“Ever occur to you that might be why they ran?” Melinda calls back. She hasn’t mouthed off like this since Immortan Gideon first hauled her and her others into the Citadel, at least out loud where anyone can hear it, and it feels oddly freeing, if a bit unnatural.

“What right d’you have to talk to him like that?” howls Hellfire, one of the most obnoxious Warboys in Melinda’s opinion, from a car to her opposite side. He’s holding one of his self-created fireballs, ready to pitch it at her at a moment’s notice. Funny how he turns off such tricks in his Wives but encourages them in his Warboys, funny or transparent.

“What right does he have to play at being the king of the universe?” Melinda replies, snarling.

“It’s getting less and less likely I’m going to let you live after all,” Ward shouts. There’s probably more, but Melinda doesn’t register it. She’s too busy pushing down her goggles, pulling up her scarf, and driving straight into the thunder-flashing dangerous sandstorm up ahead.

 

* * *

 

“What in the _world_!” Jemma shrieks, slamming her hands over her ears in a futile effort to drown out the rumbling, crackling cacophony around them.

“Must be a thunderstorm,” Flowers whispers.

Kara whimpers, curling closer to the Mockingbird. “I don’t like it,” she says. “Why would we drive _into_ …?”

Petting Kara’s hair, the Mockingbird murmurs, “Distraction?”

A particularly loud crack of thunder startles every single one of them into flinching, but Flowers makes her recovery quickest. She’s worldlier, after all, than all of them, and it shows.

“Is it even safe?” Jemma asks doubtfully. “For Melinda.”

“She must know what she’s doing,” Daisy says. “She seemed like she had a plan.” But she, too, sounds nervous.

“She must,” the Mockingbird says faintly.

They ride along in tense quiet for moments that feel endless, until finally, in her soft not-quite-perfect singing voice Kara begins, “‘ _Cause baby, now we got bad blood, you know it used to be mad love_.”

And then the Mockingbird joins in, “ _So take a look what you done, ‘cause baby, now we got bad blood.”_

“Hey!” Daisy shouts, grinning recklessly.

That’s the cue for Jemma and Flowers to join in, too, “ _Now we got problems, and I don’t think we can solve them, you made a really deep cut and baby, now we’ve got bad blood_.” All of them seem to have collectively, wordlessly agreed to sing as if they could drown out the cracks of thunder, the horrible din of sand beating against the walls of the Rig.

It’s long been one of their songs, this anthem of feminine revenge; they’ve got plenty of other songs, of course, learned from what Miss Rose remembered ( _baby there ain’t no mountain high enough_ and _I don’t want nobody, nobody, ‘cause baby it’s you_ and _make it one for my baby and one more for the road_ ) and what the Mockingbird brought with her ( _and they call her baby blue, baby blue, top bottom she does either_ and _oh baby it’s a long way down to the bottom of the river_ and _baby, can’t you see I’m calling_ ) and what nonsense they just made up, but this is the first to occur to Kara for being the right combination of defiant and furious and upbeat.

They sing until the thunder is all gone and they feel the Rig lurch to a stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _àirén_ ; "sweetheart"  
>  _cào nǐ zǔ zōng shí bā dài_ ; "fuck your ancestors to the eighteenth generation"


	11. I can be kinder but stronger to drop, stronger to drop, so don’t you stop, don't you stop

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the sandstorm, the women are met by an unexpected newcomer.

The first thing Mack notices when he wakes is how much his head aches. The second is that whoever he’s tethered to is _wearing his jacket_.

It takes him a second to catch up to himself. The tube in his neck -

\- he’d been foisted off on one of the sickly little twerps as a blood donor after -

\- the aching skin on his back - he’d been tattooed, probably not hygienically, after -

\- the muzzle around his jaw -

\- they, those same twerps, wrestled and chased him into submission after -

\- the blood that feels dry and impermeable on his skin -

\- they hauled him in during what he’d bet was a routine raid.

And now he’s chained to some pale asshole by way of some now-destroyed car. Perfect. Just perfect.

 

* * *

 

“C’mon out,” Melinda calls, opening the hatch and sliding her seat up before she climbs out of the Rig. “Stuff’s in the backseat.”

Flowers is the first of them to emerge, and lightning-fast she tosses the shoes and tools into the front seat in order to make room for the others. She waits up there till Jemma clambers out, and then she takes Jemma by the hand and tugs her far enough away from the Rig to breathe and be sick in peace.

Kara is out next, to help steady Daisy and the Mockingbird, and they all set on the pile of shoes and odds and ends. “All these are so small,” the Mockingbird sighs.

From around the side of the Rig, where she’s examining the state of things, Melinda calls, “Hard to find decent shoes on the sly, ‘specially for women’s feet.”

“Yeah,” the Mockingbird says, “an’ I’ve got feet that’re hardly delicate.”

“Sorry, Birdie,” Kara says with a little frown. She slipped into a pair of lace-up sandals (leather, heavy enough) almost as soon as seeing them, having no such problem; she’s not exactly petite, she’s one of the taller of them, but she’s very fine. The kind of girl who might, with no knowledge of her past circumstances, seem to be made of glass.

“Not yours,” the Mockingbird hums - _not your fault_. She often doesn’t see reasons to finish sentences if her girls know what she means. After a few moments of contemplation, she pulls a pair of combat boots out of the pile and holds them up to her feet with a triumphant “A-ha!”

“What’s this for?” Kara asks, lifting the bolt cutter.

The Mockingbird leans forward to kiss Kara’s cheek. “That’s freedom, love,” she hums. She jumps out of the Rig, only stumbling a little. “Toss it here, come join.”

Kara does, grinning in a way they’ve not seen in a long, long time.

“Hold still,” the Mockingbird says, wetting her lips as she raises the tool to clip the metal of Kara’s chastity belt. It takes a couple of tries, but the moment it’s off Kara squeals with delight and flings her arms around her Birdie. “We really are free!” she shouts, planting a kiss on her lips.

“Told you,” the Mockingbird says, laughing. “You next, Daisy?”

“Please,” Daisy exclaims, tightening her shoes (they’re slipperesque, but leather too, cords holding them snugly on) and practically skipping up. She lifts the hem of her dress with a cheeky grin. “Have at.”

The Mockingbird rolls her eyes. “You’re ridiculous,” she says, but she means it with affection. She gets Daisy’s belt off, with a bit more ease this time, and she shoves both belts away with the bolt cutter for help. In doing, she narrowly misses Jemma and Flowers as they approach with hands clasped.

“Hey,” Daisy says softly. “Are you feeling a little better?”

“A little,” Jemma mumbles. “My mouth feels like it’s full of rotten cloth.”

“Poor thing,” the Mockingbird frowns.

Behind them, Melinda brandishes a hose, smirking. “Maybe this will help,” she says, turning the spigot on the water tank and watching liquid start to drip out the hose.

Jemma whimpers. “Thank you,” she says, sounding much more pathetic than she’d like as she runs forward.

“It’s rough, I know,” Melinda says, intending sympathy.

They all take their turns at the water, splashing their faces and skin, sipping at it. Jemma gives an embarrassingly erotic moan as the water reaches her throat, and she flushes, but Daisy grins and rubs her back approvingly.

“Whatever makes you feel better, sweet,” she says affectionately.

Finally the Mockingbird taps Jemma’s shoulder, brandishing the bolt cutter. “Want it gone?” she asks.

“Yes, please,” Jemma says. “Thank you.” She pulls her arms into herself and frowns thoughtfully, shyly. She feels more spoiled than usually she’s comfortable with, but it’s already been enough of a _day_ that she can’t very well resist anyone’s attention.

“Poor thing,” the Mockingbird says again, prying the belt off.

“You’re lovely,” Daisy says, taking and kissing Jemma’s hands. “I’m sorry you don’t feel well.”

Jemma smiles bravely. “I’m better now that I can breathe,” she says. “Are you…?”

Daisy shrugs. “I’m past that tummy-sickness, mostly,” she declares. “Hey, Flowers!”

Flowers, with water still shining on her lips and chin, looks up and tilts her head at the Mockingbird with the bolt cutter. “You’re freeing us?”

The Mockingbird makes one of her self-effacing expressions. “I’m solidifying our freedom,” she says, eyeing Melinda obviously enough to mean _she’s the one who freed us, really._

Melinda doesn’t miss this, and it makes her turns away timidly, which both is and isn’t a surprise.

The Mockingbird sighs - she didn’t expect anything different, but it was worth trying - and snaps Flowers’ belt off. “There,” she says, decisive as can be, surveying the pile of metal and leather.

“Birdie,” Kara implores, “you haven’t got your own off yet.”

The other three all murmur in chorus, suddenly realizing this. It’s just like their Birdie, after all, to forget her own worries to solve the others’. (Really, that’s a problem all of them have, but none of them acknowledge it in themselves, only each other.)

“Gimme,” Flowers says, grabbing the bolt cutter. Kara takes the Mockingbird’s hands to make sure she stays still and Jemma and Daisy lean into each other with soft smiles. Flowers cuts the belt off, grunting just a little with the effort, and like that they’re all free together.

Suddenly, before they’ve a chance to celebrate, they hear a loud throat-clearing noise coming from the direction of the front of the Rig. They turn, startled, and Melinda shuts the water off.

Standing before them is a man, tall and dark and glowering. They’ve never seen him before, not even Melinda, and that much can be gathered from their expressions. He’s not kitted out like a Warboy or one of the other warlords’ men either. He’s got an iron muzzle fastened around his jaw, which might show he’s just as much an escapee as the six of them.

But he’s pointing a sawed-off shotgun at them.

Jemma drops the pair of boots she’s just begun to consider, Daisy clenches her fists, Flowers juts her chin out and passes the bolt cutter back to the Mockingbird (she’s the most likely to use them right) and the Mockingbird takes them with one hand and Kara’s with the other, Kara just stares.

And Melinda throws her shoulders back, defiant, anticipatory.

“What d’you want?” Jemma calls out, her voice fainter than she’d have hoped.

The stranger mutters something, “Gimme out,” maybe, though it’s hampered by the muzzle. It’s possible he’s angry, or maybe just sad, but they can’t very well tell.

“Don’t do anything rash,” Melinda mutters, to either the girls or the stranger.

Impatiently, he grunts and lifts a chain hanging from the muzzle, anchored to a fallen Warboy vehicle in the distance. So he is a prisoner, no questions.

He’s a prisoner ready to blow their brains out, though, so they’re none of them inclined to cooperate.

“Put that down,” Melinda shouts. She, they notice, does manage to be appropriately intimidating.

The stranger grunts, his eyes lighting on the Mockingbird and waving her forward, to make use of her bolt cutter. “C’mon!”

“I’m not gonna budge,” the Mockingbird huffs, but the stranger cocks his gun.

“Just do it,” Kara whispers, frightened. “Get him loose and hurry back.”

“Okay,” the Mockingbird replies, and she gives Kara’s hand a squeeze before she starts forward. She thinks fleetingly of Miss Rose’s stories, and she takes her sweet time to limp and stutter-step across the distance toward him to seem weaker, more easily underestimated.

The stranger just grumbles, yanking the chain out to emphasize his point.

“Not exactly genteel,” Jemma mutters to Daisy.

The Mockingbird comes up to snip this chain, wincing as she realizes there’s a tube between the links, pumping and carrying his blood from his throat to some far-off place. There must be a tiny - a tiny - a needle, and -

\- oh god -

“Hurry up,” he mumbles through the muzzle.

She got distracted. Stupid. You can’t get distracted out here. She cuts the chain, making a little noise of too much effort. Then he turns back toward his crashed vehicle, and in a split second the Mockingbird lifts the tool and swings it toward his head. She’s just this much faster than him, and it makes contact, metal appendages against the metal mask. He stumbles and ducks, still holding the chain enough to yank on it; in the distance, the not-so-fallen Warboy stumbles out of his car, yelping ecstatically.

The Mockingbird tips her head to the side. “S’that some kinda… furious vexation?”

“We got them!” the Warboy shouts, grinning maniacally as he approaches them. It takes the women a second to realize he’s addressing the stranger. “We got his Wives, they’re right in front of us. We bring them back, we can have anything. I wanna take…” He leers as he looks Jemma up and down, which makes Daisy in turn step in front of her protectively and makes him shrug absently. “I wanna take over her Rig.”

“Arse-licker!” Jemma shouts, screwing up her face. “Dozy, daft arse-licker!”

The Warboy smiles almost emptily. “So _chrome_ ,” he says. He steps a little closer, honestly more curious than menacing, but the second he reaches out to touch one of them (again Jemma, he seems fascinated by her) Melinda lashes out, lobbing her wrench at his hand.

“Ah!” he yells. “Stupid -”

He doesn’t have a chance to finish, though, as Melinda lunges at him with a growl. All the ex-Wives move back in a cluster, panicked and anxious; well, all except the Mockingbird, who jumps forward wielding the bolt cutter. The stranger gets into the fray, too, and the four of them all punch and kick and scrap.

“What are you running for?” the Warboy shouts between hits, addressing the Mockingbird most specifically. “The Immortan holds you dear!”

“He’s a sick piece and he only holds us dear if we’re silent, cheerful holes to fuck!” the Mockingbird retorts.

The key to the Rig falls out of Melinda’s pocket and hits the sand, and Kara means well by shouting “Melinda! Your key!” but the stranger manages to reach it first.

“Stop that!” Jemma shrieks, making to intercept.

Daisy furrows her brow, concentrating, and as the stranger runs toward the driver’s seat the ground beneath his feet starts to rumble, threatening to upend him. He looks back at her, upset, and before any of them can react he fires a bullet, catching Jemma in the leg. Her scream is enough of a distraction that Daisy stops what she’s doing and he can get into the Rig to start the engine.

“ _Gāisǐ de_ ,” Melinda mutters. “How’s it feel?”

“It hurts,” Jemma says through gritted teeth.

Melinda frowns. “Yeah, it will,” she says. Once again she’s sympathetic; once again she’s not sure anymore how to express that. “Grab what you can and run.” She elbows the Warboy in the skull, sending him falling back against the sand. Flowers grabs the shoes she and Jemma haven’t yet put on, the Mockingbird twirls the bolt cutter and Kara takes her hand, Daisy grabs the gun that fell off the Warboy’s hip, Melinda sighs and steps forward to shoulder some of Jemma’s weight.

They reach the Rig by the time it’s stalled out, Melinda smirking just slightly. “Kill switch,” she says. “Set it myself.”

“Why’re you running?” the stranger asks.

“We’re going to _Lǜsè dì Dìfāng Hěnduō Mǔqīn_ , the Green Place of Many Mothers,” Daisy says earnestly. “We’re going to be free.”

The stranger frowns, his hand on the brake. “The…”

“We’re going,” Jemma insists.

“The Rig won’t go without me,” Melinda says. “And I won’t go without them.”

The stranger falters, clearly weighing his options. The gun is in his lap.

“We can get that thing off your face,” Melinda offers.

 

* * *

 

Melinda Qiaolian was born, like so many children of the Green Place, with no true father and a dozen mothers. Her birth mother, Lian, had - well, she didn’t say. She must have slept with some man out in the wild; it must have been of her own volition, because none of the Mothers ever scoffed or spat when he was alluded to, and that was a comfort, at least.

(That wasn’t unheard of, the children of the Green Place being unwillingly or at least accidentally sired. Melinda always thought she’d hate to be one of them; she had enough of a tendency to carry guilt without the burden of seeing regret in her mother’s eyes.)

Her mysterious father, now absent, must have been a drifter. Most people were, out in the Wasteland, and the only men in the Green Place were its sons. They were lucky, Melinda knew, to have a bit of land and safety and sustainability all their own. Not many did anymore, and that was a big part of the problem with the world: too many people (not near as many as there used to be, the nuclear disasters and the riots had seen to that, but still too many, proportionally) and not enough resources. Plenty of _land_ , not enough on it.

The warlords, Lian explained (she was fond of explaining), hated sharing, and they’d been quick to divvy what was left out between themselves. (It stood to reason they’d instigated the whole disaster, the apocalypse some of the Mothers called it, but it had never been proved.) There was Whitehall in Gas Town, a nervy shadow of a man hiding behind his army; Major Aquarius at the Bullet Farm, an outlandishly depraved sadomasochist and bully; Immortan Gideon at the Citadel, the cruelest of them all, the warlord of warlords, who preached a made-up faith and ruthlessly controlled the only publicly known food and water for miles. All the children of the Green Place were taught these things, so that they might never have to see them for true.

Theirs was a secret, special place. “An oasis,” Jiaying would say - it was an antique word, a pretty fantasy. Compared to the rest of the Wasteland, the Green Place did count as such. They had water, they had plants, they had peace.

What Lian called it was _Lǜsè dì Dìfāng_. Other languages were nearly extinct, but the Many Mothers - _Hěnduō Mǔqīn_ \- held them up and their children, mostly daughters, followed that way. To Melinda and Jiaying, to their birth mothers, to the others who’d been there from the beginning, those were the words. Some of the others, runaways from the Sunken City who’d found their way in, said _зеленый место многих матерей_ ; still other wanderers called it _El Lugar Verde de Muchas Madres_. The place had begun with one old culture, but it grew with time, a little safe haven.

Whatever it was called, it was unlike anything in the world. It was perfect.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _gāisǐ de_ ; "damn it"  
>  _Lǜsè dì Dìfāng Hěnduō Mǔqīn_ , _зеленый место многих матерей_ , _El Lugar Verde de Muchas Madres_ ; "the Green Place of Many Mothers"


	12. next time you try to cut me down your blades will blunten on my branches

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The journey progresses; the stranger may yet prove a friend.

Jemma’s never dealt with a bullet wound (for all the horrors the Immortan wreaked, he kept his guns out of the bedroom) but she’s read about them enough that she can try to treat it with what they have.

The fact that she’s the injured one complicates things, though.

For the same reasons she was the one to mind Jemma once they’d stopped driving the first time, Flowers is given responsibility for helping; she’s never dealt with bullet wounds either, but she’s come closer than any of them. The Mockingbird is readiest to bash the stranger if he gets out of line, too.

“Daisy,” Melinda says, “there’s a knife in the door pocket.”

“Careful,” the stranger says, making a face.

“You don’t have to help him if you don’t want to,” Jemma calls from the backseat. She’s understandably tense, even more than the others, with this new development.

“I know,” Daisy says, looking Jemma in the eye meaningfully before she starts to jimmy the lock. She’s angry at the stranger of course, but it won’t hurt if she helps him get a little more comfortable. He’s here, he’s got a little bit of power over them, they might as well compromise.

It doesn’t improve his attitude yet; he rolls his eyes at the ex-Wives and makes a face like he’s about to complain. Jemma stares back defiantly, Kara flinches, as a result the Mockingbird grabs both of them and snarls, “Crazy smeg, probably eats schlanger.”

“Wouldn’t literally eat it,” the stranger huffs, turning to stare ahead at the road. “That’d be a waste.”

Unsurprisingly, Flowers is the first to bark out a laugh. Then the Mockingbird, then - oddly enough - Melinda, and from there they all join in.

“More for you, less for us,” Flowers says cheerfully.

The stranger makes a funny chortling noise, seeming somewhat startled that he’s roused to laughter. “All of you?”

“Usually,” Flowers says with a casual shrug.

“Yes,” Jemma and Kara say.

“Most always,” Melinda agrees, and Daisy and the Mockingbird nod along.

“That why you ran?” the stranger asks.

“Not primarily,” the Mockingbird sniffs, just as Daisy rolls her eyes and asks, “If none of us love him, why are two of us knocked up by him?”

The stranger frowns, knowing there’s no good answer.

“He’s gonna try to bargain, isn’t he, Birdie?” Kara asks softly, studying him. “He’s thinking he’ll trade us for what he wants.” She, after all, knows about trading. Being traded.

“We’re not _things_ ,” the Mockingbird whispers fiercely. “I’d like to see him _try_ to cut a deal.” To Melinda she says, “I dunno why we don’t just throw him out. He’s funny, but he shot Jemma and he’s like to shoot any of us too.”

“He hasn’t yet,” Melinda says warily.

“What’ll happen when the Warboys come back?” Flowers asks. “They’re gonna come back.”

“We’ll see,” Melinda sighs.

 

* * *

 

Some of the daughters of the Green Place had gifts. That was the easiest way to describe it, and Melinda did a lot of trying to describe it, at least in her own mind.

The way the Mothers explained it was this: a long time ago, longer even than artifacts could date, beings (aliens? Angels? Both or neither?) decided to empower mere humans. Fighting, it seemed, was on the horizon, and people would need these special advantages; they were abandoned by their reinventors sooner, perhaps, than had been intended (why? Was it an experiment? Back when such things could really be done?) but they managed. They held on. Many of them stayed together. They learned, they bore children, the children learned in turn.

These powers ranged from the small to the vast. Those who could manipulate the elements - fire, water, earth - and those who could manipulate the self - projecting one’s thoughts, extending one’s limbs, stealing another’s energy - and anything in between.

The way the daughters explained it was this: in some of their lineages, now forgotten in name but honored in spirit, were those who had inhuman abilities, so they did as well. It didn’t make them better, plenty of the women without true gifts were otherwise talented invaluably, but it was a blessing to be respected.

Melinda and her mother did not have these gifts; presumably her absent father had not either. They made up for it by being over-competent: able to fight if they needed to fight, or if they didn’t fight they could scavenge with the best of them, or if they didn’t need to do that, they could strategize and analyze and educate. They made themselves useful, and they were admired.

Gifts typically manifested in adolescence, and rarely came as a complete surprise (familial as it was, it could be anticipated, if vaguely). Melinda knew she wouldn’t be metaphorically reborn in that way, because her mother hadn’t been and her mother before that, but she was still fascinated by the whole thing.

Her best friend, gentle-hearted Jiaying, came from a long line of gifted women, and at first her gift was not apparent. She knew in her soul when it had awakened, she could feel it, but she looked the same, her abilities were the same. Then one rowdy afternoon she fell from a tall, tall tree, snapped her wrist, and watched as it healed itself all at once.

How incredible! The younger girls were in awe, just wishing their own gifts would be so special. The Mothers were admiring, glad of this practical gift and worried that she might overuse it. The regular girls were interested, careful not to gawk. Melinda was amazed, but for a little while she kept her distance, perplexed.

It didn’t last. It couldn’t change things.

 

* * *

 

Birdie was right, Flowers was right: it’s better up in the fresh air. It’s still warm, of course, but there’s the slight breeze coming in through the windows, there’s the simple fact of the air being fresh (or fresher) and not stagnant. Jemma is sitting with her back pressed to one door, her injured leg stretched out over Flowers’ lap. Daisy has the middle seat so there’s room for her belly. The Mockingbird and Kara are wedged together at the other window, the Mockingbird letting one of her hands float out the window.

“Feels like a road trip,” Flowers murmurs, smiling faintly.

“How?” Kara asks, leaning against the Mockingbird. She knows conceptually what those are, but Flowers knows _actually,_ and that’s fascinating.

“Oh, just the ambiance,” Flowers says, shrugging. “We’re on the way crammed in together with wistful dreams.”

“All about the journey, you mean,” Daisy says. “Even though it’s not just.”

“Exactly,” Flowers nods. "There's hope in the air.

The Mockingbird smiles wryly, turns her face out the window as she sings softly, a near-whispered “ _And give us your strength, world and your food and your water, oh, we are your saviors, your last serving daughters._ ”

Kara turns to kiss her Birdie’s cheek.

“This isn’t a vacation,” Melinda says, eyes darting back.

“Whatever it is, it’s not what it was,” Jemma says softly. “That counts for a lot.”

The stranger rumbles. He hasn’t yet loosed his hold on the gun, but he’s relaxed. “What’s this Green Place?” he asks, as if changing the subject, as if he’d been uncomfortable.

“ _Lǜsè dì Dìfāng_ _Hěnduō Mǔqīn_ ,” Daisy pipes up eagerly. “It’s a safe haven.”

“Melinda grew up there,” Jemma explains.

“Why’d you leave?” the stranger asks.

“ _Tā mā de wǒ_!” Melinda mutters, glancing in her rearview.

“What is it?” Jemma and Kara squeak.

“They’re back,” Flowers says without having looked. “Immortan’s got more of the hangers-on. Whitehall’s men, the Major’s.”

Kara stiffens. “We should’ve lost them,” she frets.

“We’re gonna,” Daisy exclaims.

The roaring engines don’t serve to drown out the noise of their own Rig, though, which kicks up, making Flowers drawl, “Fuel pod’s dragging. Lemme…”

“I’ll go,” the stranger interrupts, ducking out the door - and promptly getting shoved back in and clambered over by the Warboy from earlier.

“You traitored him!” the Warboy shouts, slamming fists into Melinda. “Rotten, thieving -”

Melinda growls, reaching for her shifter. “He needs to go,” she declares.

“No,” Kara cries. “Don’t kill him just to kill him, we’d be no better than -”

“He’s gonna kill us,” Melinda yells, trying to maintain her driving despite the Warboy’s struggles to do as well. The stranger and Daisy do their best to hold him back, to mixed effect.

“He’s a kid!” Kara shrieks. “He’s been brainwashed, he’s just hanging onto his sad half-life.”

“No!” the Warboy wails, beating his fists. “I live, I die, I live again!”

Melinda snarls and the girls follow suit. “Just throw him out, leave him,” Flowers says, disdainful.

“They can pick up their trash or leave him too,” the Mockingbird sniffs. “Doesn’t matter which.”

“Speaking of,” the stranger says, “they’re coming up on us.”

“Bullet Farm,” the Mockingbird hisses, cradling Kara’s head against her shoulder protectively.

“You can’t win this!” the Warboy shouts gleefully. “He’ll get you back one way or the other, he always does -”

“He can bloody well try!” Jemma growls.

“He’ll do it,” the Warboy insists. “He’s favored, he’s chosen. He’s king of the hive!”

Jemma shoves him away, annoyed. “Beehives have queens, Warboy,” she mutters, making it sound like the worst insult.

“He really has done a number on you,” Daisy says, almost pitying. “Fooled you into seeing everything wrong.”

“He’ll lift us up, it’s the only way,” the Warboy insists, reaching for the nearest arm - Kara’s, which makes the Mockingbird growl and bite him.

“That why he uses us till we’re dead?” Jemma asks.

“Why all he wants is to bloody us, bruise us, fill us up with babies or put guns in our hands?” Flowers adds.

“I’m awaited,” the Warboy says.

“You’re battle fodder,” Kara shouts, voice high. “You’re battle fodder, we’re breeding stock, he’s a cruel sadistic _liar_.”

The girls manage to wrestle the Warboy into the back and Jemma opens the door, hanging onto her seat tightly.

“We’re not at fault, though,” the Warboy yelps, suddenly aware of her precarious position.

Kara scoffs, Flowers glares, Jemma makes a face. Melinda and the stranger frown deeply. “Who is, then?” Daisy asks.

“Who killed the world?” the Mockingbird screams, and they shove him out.

 

* * *

 

Jiaying was a different sort of girl than Melinda, always had been. Much more personable, sweeter especially with the littler children (Melinda was all right, but she had a bit darker of a mind, it didn’t translate as well) and more in touch with traditions too. Oh, Melinda spoke their mother tongue, had grown up doing, but Jiaying held so many more stories in her mind, so many more little bits of culture. She was a more conscientious daughter.

Part of this, honestly, was just Jiaying being one of the angel-children. She had much more culture to remember. She had the mythos, the lore, the wide range of possibility. But she wasn’t smug about it, she didn’t act like she had anything over on anyone. She was good.

Melinda was a bit older than Jiaying, but only a bit. It didn’t matter. All the children of the Green Place - the dozen daughters, the several sons - were close by necessity, just like their mothers: so few of them there, anything but closeness would be counterproductive. They played together, learned together, did everything together, but maybe just because they were closest in age or maybe just because, Melinda and Jiaying were closest to each other.

A balancing act, maybe: Melinda as the earth and Jiaying as the sky, Melinda as the water and Jiaying the fire. “The warrior maiden and the fairy princess,” Jiaying said, smiling in that mischievous way of hers. She, her point was, had an air of fancifulness that Melinda could never quite reach, Melinda in turn was a little more practical, tougher. Complementary.

To be sure, Jiaying could be vicious - any unfriendly strangers who got too close and seemed like they might do harm were, in her mind, enemies and deserving of her scorn and rage - and Melinda could be playful - she played what her mother called “practical jokes,” though they were never very _practical_ , she had a sense of humor best described as quirky - but they weren’t quite thought of in those ways.

They were the bigger girls. They were fonts of knowledge - Jiaying’s cultural, Melinda’s martial - and respected by their elders and the little ones alike. Collectively regarded as they were, was it a wonder they were so intimate?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _tā mā de wǒ!_ ; "fuck me!"
> 
> Also, Major Aquarius, by way of good ol' some comics nonsense, is John Garrett.


	13. and now he won’t cross me I’m angry and he’s the one that needs to be scared

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Out in the Waste, the ex-Wives and Melinda continue to make a stand; Daisy is the bravest of all.

They’re all shook up by the apparition-like Warboy, even though he’s sprawled on the ground eating their dust, even Melinda is shook up although she doesn’t say it, and shook up more by the vehicles on the horizon, so carefully, tentatively, the Mockingbird starts another sing-along. She’s their only keeper of music now, really. (Does anyone in the Green Place recall such things? The Mockingbird can’t find the right time to ask, but she’s curious.)

“ _All I want to get is a little bit closer_ ,” she sings, soft and yet playful. She nudges Kara, she nudges Daisy, she grins like they’re not doing the most terrifying thing of their lives. _“All I want to know is, can you come a little closer?_ ”

“ _Here comes the breath before we get a little bit closer_ ,” Daisy joins in, making up harmonies. “ _Here comes the rush before we touch, come a little closer_.”

“ _The doors are open, the wind is really blowing_ ,” Kara adds.

“ _The night sky is changing overhead_ ,” Jemma adds.

“ _It’s not just all physical! I’m the type who won’t get oh so critical_ ,” they all sing, oblivious to the looks the stranger is giving them. “ _So let’s make things physical, I won’t treat you like you’re oh so -_ ”

“Shush,” Melinda says suddenly. “We’re almost at the pass.”

“What pass?” Jemma asks.

Melinda nods at the rock formation ahead of them. “Watchdog territory,” she explains. “They’re mean little creeps, but I cut a deal with them. Gas for safe passage.”

“Aren’t they half a militia themselves?” Daisy asks with a sniff. She remembers the name, if vaguely, from skulking the Citadel in her youth.

“Luck willing you won’t have to find out,” Melinda sighs. She knows this isn’t going to go over well. “The deal also says I’m alone.”

“Oh no, Melinda,” Jemma moans, and Daisy pats her hand consolingly.

“It’s okay,” Melinda says, although she doesn’t do a very good job of making it sound convincing. She’s never been the sympathetic one. “It won’t be long.” She turns to the stranger, frowning in concentration. “You drive?”

He nods. “S’how I…” He shrugs, like he started to say something before he thought better of it.

“I need to ask you something,” Melinda continues. “If something happens -”

“No,” Jemma shouts. “You can’t trust him. Have Flowers the getaway driver, she knows how just as well as he must.”

Flowers shakes her head. “He should do it,” she says. “He’ll prove he’s with us for good.”

“Will he?” Kara asks quietly, looking at him out the corner of her eye.

“I think he will,” Flowers says. “I have a feeling.” And that, hopefully, means something.

“What do I call you?” Melinda asks him, as if to clinch the deal.

The stranger shrugs. Some things aren’t worth sharing, apparently, or maybe he’s like Flowers was and doesn’t have a name. Maybe it’s a thousand different reasons.

“Well, if this goes sideways, if I shout ‘fool,’ you take the Rig and get them out,” Melinda says. She looks him in the eye as she indicates the right points to press and recites, “One. One, two. One. Red. Black. Go. Got it?”

“I do,” the stranger promises.

“Get under,” Melinda instructs, and one by one, Kara then the Mockingbird then Jemma then Flowers then Daisy then the stranger (the last two poking out the hatch, Daisy practically holding her breath with nervousness from being pressed so close to a man) - they climb in.

“That’s okay, with it open?” Flowers asks Jemma.

“Yeah,” Jemma says, snuggling into the Mockingbird. “Airflow.”

“Ssh,” Kara says fretfully.

“Hey! It’s all here!” Melinda yells, putting the brakes on and stepping out of the Rig. “Three thousand gallons, just like you asked. Pure guzzoline.”

“There’s war parties on your trail,” one of the Watchdogs calls, nodding at the horizon. “More’n a few.”

“Yeah, well, I got unlucky,” Melinda shouts. “Look, I’m gonna unhitch the pod.”

“No bleeding deal!” another Watchdog retorts. “You’re bringing hell down on us, we’d be better off turning you in, reaping the rewards.”

“He’d just as soon shoot you as pay you,” Melinda growls, quickly and accurately assessing the situation. “Fool!”

The stranger scrambles up and punches the code before he’s even in the driver’s seat all the way, revving the engine; all of the ex-Wives follow, cramming back into the seat and fumbling for tools, whatever they can get their hands on. The Mockingbird opens her door to give Melinda, running alongside them, a hand up.

“Shit,” she says plainly.

“They’re catching up already,” Melinda sighs. “And the Watchdogs aren’t gonna be much help.” She makes a face. “They were gonna blow the rocks, create a diversion. They like destruction.”

“I can do it,” Daisy says.

“What?” Melinda shouts.

“My… what I can do,” Daisy says. Let me try. I’ll bring it all down.”

“Daisy,” Jemma frets, grabbing her hand. “You don’t…”

“Let me _try_ ,” Daisy repeats, sounding like she’s about to scream.

“It couldn’t hurt,” Melinda says, though she in turn sounds wary.

“Please, Jem, Daisy whispers. “I need to.”

Jemma sniffles, but she nods. “Careful?”

“Promise,” Daisy says. She tags the stranger on the shoulder impulsively. “C’mon, cover me.”

He grunts, surprised, but he grabs his gun and follows her out the Rig. “What can you do?” he asks her, one hand on the doorframe.

Daisy grins, though it doesn’t seem happy. “I shake stuff,” she declares, because she’s not sure how else to explain it. “Dunno how. I just do.”

“That what you did before?” he asks. “To me?”

“Yeah,” Daisy nods.

“You ever done it this big?”

“First time for everything,” she replies, focusing on the canyon and starting, if slowly, to vibrate the rocks. She’s concentrating, she’s not even thinking about the way the wind is pulling at her hair or the way that sand keeps getting everywhere, she’s just focusing on the energy in her body and pouring it out toward the Watchdogs’ canyon. Soon, the rocks indeed start to crumble, to fall, and then all at once the arch caves and a pile accumulates - she almost can’t believe she did _that_.

 

* * *

 

 

Jiaying thought it would be nice to have a child someday.

Pass culture along, do that little bit for her people and for the world, what of it there was anymore. Nourish something all her own. She’d be a good first mother, all the older women agreed: she was compassionate, she was well-liked by everyone. She was always the best one of them at helping the angel-children adapt to their new gifts, too.

She never said exactly how she’d go about this. The few sons of the Green Place didn’t often stick around (they were more like to get caught on scavenging expeditions, or simply to get enchanted by the lure of the Wasteland and never return) and she’d never expressed interest in them, but there would be one available if she needed it, or she could venture out into the world to find someone to lay down with like some of the women did. It wasn’t unheard of, either way, and it didn’t seem to worry her much.

Melinda thought it _might_ be nice to have a child someday, but she was less sure her temperament was suited to it. She was less sure she’d be able to just pick someone out and call it fair, she was less sure she’d know what to do with a child. Maybe she’d let some of her sisters go first and see how well she handled being someone’s initiate mother, then consider birthing her own.

“You’re so practical,” Jiaying would say, sighing fondly.

“It’s a big decision,” Melinda would defend. “I wouldn’t want to do anything rash.”

They differed, but they differed in thought while staying near. They stayed near when they were young, doing everything together: climb trees, outwit their elders, braid hair, hear stories. They slept near each other, staring at the sky and naming stars until they drifted off. They shared body heat when it was cooler.

As they got older, thousands of thousands of days past (marked off in the bark of a tree that had fallen long ago, one already dead), they shared body heat for more reasons than just that. They learned the little secrets of each other’s bodies, touching gently, naming the places and the feelings in two tongues. They took turns, sometimes telling the other what to do, sometimes letting the other have free reign. (They were both - what did Lian call them? “Control freaks” - so this willing shift of power between them was a compliment, an unspoken measure of the trust they had.)

“This won’t give either of us children,” Melinda once pointed out, carding fingers through Jiaying’s hair. She wasn’t sure why she said it, only that she felt like she ought to just in case.

“I know that, silly,” Jiaying laughed, shutting her eyes contentedly to end that conversation.

What would happen to give them children, then, was a long way off. They’d worry when it came to that.

 

* * *

 

 

“Shit, Daisy!” the Mockingbird cries once everyone is seated again and they’re speeding away from the wreck. “That was incredible!”

Daisy for her part seems a bit shocked that it worked as well as it did, and a bit drained at that, but she manages to work up the energy to preen some. “I mean, all I did really was just get it started,” she says sheepishly, letting Jemma take her hand.

“You did well,” Melinda says, making eye contact in the rearview mirror and nodding approvingly before she starts to wipe the greasepaint from her brow.

Flowers nods seriously. “It’ll buy us a little time, at least,” she says, rubbing Daisy’s shoulder.

“Is yours back yet?” Daisy asks earnestly. “You’ve been…”

“It’s still just intuition,” Flowers says, sounding a little impatient but affectionately so. “But it feels close.”

“What do you do?” the stranger asks, one brow quirked.

“Flowers can see the future,” Jemma says proudly. “Or she could before he started poisoning us.”

“Poison?” the stranger rumbles. “Sick son of a…”

“Not really poison,” Melinda interjects. “It’s a theory they have, about how he was working some kind of chemical reaction in their space to make them docile, counteract potential advantages.”

Jemma huffs, clearly affronted. She’s not used to her intellectualisms being challenged, even in passing. “A theory?” she repeats.

“Didn’t say it didn’t have merit,” Melinda replies, smirking slightly. She’s not _quite_ teasing. “He goes the other way with his followers.”

“You mean like that twerp I was hooked up to?” the stranger pipes up, curious.

Melinda nods. “Some of the Warboys have those quirks,” she says with a shrug.

“You’ve not told us that!” Daisy - who somehow hadn’t realized that anyone left in the world besides her and Flowers might do - exclaims. “Do _you_ have quirks?”

Melinda shakes her head, solemn again. “Gifts is a better name, anyway,” she says. “I didn’t know the twerp, but there’s – oh, Hellfire, Sparks, plenty of them. Those nicknames don’t come from nowhere.”

They’re all silent for a moment, contemplating this. It makes a sick sort of sense.

“I hear something,” Kara murmurs suddenly, clinging tighter to the Mockingbird. “Are they…?”

Flowers glances back, frowning. “Looks like they’re trying to cut a path,” she says.

“Shit,” the Mockingbird hisses.

“Fang it,” Flowers mutters, not that Melinda needs the reminder.

“They really want you back,” the stranger remarks, sounding both awed and disgusted.

“Ha!” Daisy laughs. “ _They’re_ all willing to do whatever _he_ asks, and he thinks we belong to him. So-called god-given right and all, even though whatever god it is is just one more thing they made up.”

“He’s a sick kidnapper,” Jemma scoffs. “He’s warped.”

“He’d as soon kill us as have us back to bed,” Flowers snarks. “Either way, we’re his to decide what to do with.”

The stranger makes a face. “Who’s he to say?”

“He’s the guy that swallowed the last guy’s ashes,” Daisy says darkly.

A few of the smaller bikes mount the hill and begin to pursue them, and the Watchdogs that didn’t get crushed are following, exchanging fire. Just more noise and chaos following.

“No gifts to complicate in that bunch, at least,” Melinda mutters. “The Watchdogs. They don’t hold with it.”

“Glad I got the ones I did, then,” Daisy sniffs. “Bigots.”

“Does it have to be with rocks?” Kara asks her softly. “Could you make anything else fall, too?”

Daisy frowns. “I’ve never really tried,” she admits. “It’s always been rocks or, or ground, but maybe…”

“Oi, whores!” shouts a Warboy on a motorcycle, speeding to catch up to them.

“Hellfire,” Melinda hisses.

Make that two Warboys, whichever poor sod got dragged into playing driver for Hellfire, who rides on the back, swinging his treasured flame chain. Showboating asshole.

“What is that?!” Kara shrieks.

“That’s one of the sorriest sacks of shit ever to have been gifted,” Melinda snarls, swerving out of the way of his attack (it barely misses the passenger-side door, which makes the stranger yelp).

“You’re only makin’ it worse,” Hellfire shouts at them.

“Oh, bugger off!” Jemma howls.

Hellfire whips the chain toward the open window, laughing. “Guess it wouldn’t matter if I scorched ya some,” he calls, “It ain’t a secret he doesn’t mind a few scars.”

Kara flinches and buries her face in the Mockingbird’s lap, and the Mockingbird, for her part, howls, “ _Xуесос!_ ”

“Naughty, naughty,” roars the Immortan, who seems to have gained on them while Hellfire was distracting them with chatter. He’s at their other side in a smaller vehicle than before (presumably this one had an easier time conquering Daisy’s rock slide) and Crossbones, to everyone’s chagrin, is driving, sneering all the while. “Maybe when we’re all home again I’ll tame that tongue of yours once and for all.”

“Die in a fire!” the Mockingbird shrieks, though she can’t keep the fear out of her voice entirely.

“Fucker!” Flowers adds furiously.

“Might be an improvement, all around,” the Immortan shouts, falsely jolly. “Surprised I never thought of it before.” As he speaks, he starts to load a rifle and aim it out the window, right at Melinda.

“No!” Jemma and Flowers shout, tensing up.

“Hold on,” Daisy mutters, climbing over their laps. “Time to figure out the answer to that question, Kara.”

“What are you doing?” Jemma yells as Daisy opens the door.

“What I have to,” Daisy says. Once again she edges out, one hand on the doorframe, one hand in front of her; this time Jemma’s arm goes around her belly protectively, because she can’t imagine not doing.

“Immortan,” shouts another Warboy, this one clinging to the roof of the car.

 _“My Daisy pure-and sweet!”_ the Immortan barks, sounding angrier than he almost ever has. “Talk sense into this madwoman and tell her to return you to me.”

“Not in a million years,” Daisy yells, and she starts concentrating her energy on upending the car.

“Daisy, get back!” Kara shrieks from safe inside the cab, trembling. “I don’t want to know anymore! Get back in here where it’s safe!”

The stranger, meanwhile, has aimed his gun at Hellfire and Hellfire in turn seems keen on attacking the stranger. The Mockingbird is shakily preparing spare guns.

“She’ll be fine, beloved,” Flowers soothes, stroking Kara’s hair. “It’ll be fine.”

“No,” Kara shrills, “no, she just…”

“What’s it gonna be Immortan?” Daisy taunts. Her vibrations are getting stronger, rippling the air around the other car. “Take her out and risk your prize? Take me out and reap the consequences?”

The Immortan glares. “Stun her, Sparks,” he yells.

Daisy only has a second to react before white-hot light comes surging out of the Warboy’s hands. He’s another of the ones Melinda mentioned, it seems. Nobody can tell where he means to hit her – what qualifies as a stun – but he first aims for her own hands, then (accidentally?) for her stomach.

Jemma shrieks as the electricity buzzes through her arm, not strong enough to really hurt but strong enough to startle her into nearly dropping Daisy.

Daisy shrieks as she folds forward, already unconscious by the time Jemma manages to grab her again.

The other ex-Wives all shriek as Daisy falls out of their view.

“Shit!” the stranger yells. “Is she?”

With more strength than she knew she had, Jemma hauls Daisy back inside and starts fluttering over her, bidding the others flatten out to give Daisy a solid surface to rest on and arranging her limbs appropriately. “She’s still here,” Jemma reports. “We’ve gotta get somewhere I can treat her, though. I don’t know how long she’ll last – after –” She interrupts herself to choke out a sob.

“Okay,” Melinda says. “They seem to be held up back there –” She jerks her head toward the Immortan’s now-wrecked car, where he appears to be playing judge, jury, and executioner for the errant Warboy – “So it shouldn’t be too hard to outrun them.”

“Hang on, Daisy,” Jemma whispers fiercely. “Hang on.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _xyесос_ ; "cocksucker"
> 
> I don't like to spoil but because of _Fury Road_ canon I feel it important to let you know that Daisy is in fact going to be okay. I don't want you worrying.


	14. there's a little piece of you tangled in my hair, get it out, get it out, get it out, get it out, get it out, I don't want it there

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Pieces of the past and present start to come together more clearly; Jemma doctors, Daisy hurts, Kara doubts, the Mockingbird chastises, and Flowers mediates.

It wasn’t all peace and gardens and joy in the Green Place, of course. The Mothers who went out scavenging returned much later than they intended, beat up or robbed or worse; sometimes they didn’t return at all.

It was after one such disappearance (the mother of a young daughter, angel-children both) that Jiaying had the idea: in case they were ever parted, in case they ever needed to prove who they were to another of their kind, or even just to remember who they were, a little bit of ink.

“Nothing flashy,” she said. “Just a marker. Who we are, who we’re meant to be.”

She did her own tattoo herself, scribbled on her wrist for ease: just her name spelled out plain, all lowercase letters, _jiaying_ , with the calligraphy, 嘉颖, alongside it.

“Just so we know.”

Some of them were more complicated than that. Melinda, after all, had two names, so Jiaying wound up writing the first out, _melinda_ , and doing the characters, 巧莲, for the second. Little Akela, whose mother had gone and never returned had only the one name but no variant writing of it, so her text, _akela,_ was accompanied by a tiny drawing of a four-leaf clover, which like her name meant lucky. Elena, who’d just received her gift (speed, though with constraints), was sometimes called “Yo-Yo” because of the old world toy her abilities mimicked, and beside her name, _elena_ , was a little picture of a yo-yo.

They weren’t short on ink, somehow, and this ritual marking went from practice to policy in the span of a single moon. All the Many Mothers and all their daughters, even the youngest of them, were marked on.

Birthmarked, Jiaying called it.

She did most of the tattooing herself, soothing the more anxious - the littlest girls particularly got nervous around the tattoo needle - and scripting out the designs on their skin. Wrists, usually, for ease.

“Now we’ll always be able to tell,” Jiaying said, smiling.

“Why would we need to?” asked Alisha, one of the angel-children who had yet to turn, who followed Jiaying around worshipfully.

“In case the world is cruel,” Melinda sighed.

“Because it’s better to be prepared than not,” Jiaying added. “We don’t know what’s waiting outside _Lǜsè dì Dìfāng_ , we have to be ready.”

 

* * *

 

 

Daisy keeps breathing even as they drive much longer than Jemma would like, her pulse stays even. They cover her with a blanket and murmur things at her while they cry. The Mockingbird mostly sniffles - she’s bad at crying - and Jemma hyperventilates, oblivious to the red and blistering burn developing on her arm, worried only about Daisy. Flowers and Kara weep anxiously, without abandon, clinging to each other. Melinda grips the steering wheel a bit tighter and even the stranger seems uncomfortable.

“She gonna be okay?” he asks when the crying has at least quieted.

“She has to be,” the Mockingbird hisses, making a fist.

As soon as they’re into the true middle of nowhere, with no ways anyone could sneak up on them, Melinda puts the brakes on and Jemma barks, “Flowers, stay close. Everyone else, I need _space_.”

Melinda makes a face. “I oughta check the engine,” she coughs, stepping out of the cab. “C’mon, fool, maybe you can help.”

They move the sheets onto the backseat and gently nudge Daisy up so Jemma can take a look, so Jemma can kneel beside her. After fetching a bottle’s worth of water just in case, Flowers takes the passenger seat with all the tools at the ready.

“Just hang on, love,” Jemma whispers again, leaning close to hear Daisy’s heart and wishing she had even the most basic stethoscope, the most rudimentary tools. She pulls up Daisy’s singed dress, frowns at the burn, starts to clean her hands and then Daisy’s stomach gently.

“What more do we do?” Flowers asks.

Jemma swallows, her hands traveling over Daisy’s stomach to confirm her suspicions. “She’s lost the baby,” she murmurs, and carefully she begins to tend to Daisy, cleaning lower still. “She’s going to bleed it out. We just -” She exhales heavily - “We have to prevent infection or pain and keep her from bleeding out entirely.”

“Tell me what to do,” Flowers says solemnly.

They set about making Daisy comfortable, taking care of her as she stirs and murmurs, still unconscious but not seeming to be in an abnormal amount of pain given what her body is going through. It’s something, anyway.

Then suddenly, the Mockingbird’s voice from outside: “Kara!”

Flowers and Jemma exchange worried glances, then Jemma says, “You go. I’m staying with Daisy.”

Flowers nods and bolts out of the cab, falling in line with the Mockingbird and quickly outpacing her (she’s trying to run toward Kara, who’s got a head start, but it’s difficult with her knee). “Kara, what are you doing?” Flowers cries.

“He’ll take us back!” Kara sobs, tripping over her own feet and stumbling against the sand. “If we just – if we _apologize_ , he won’t…”

“That’s not true,” Flowers says firmly. “You know that’s not true.” Carefully, she kneels beside Kara, puts her arm around her shoulders.

“He’d stop chasing!” Kara shrieks, hysterical. “Nobody else would hafta die!”

“No-good Warboys?” Flowers scoffs. “That monster Daisy carried? Maybe they wouldn’t die, but if we stayed or went back we might.”

Kara’s shoulders hunch. “We were safe,” she whimpers. “It wasn’t perfect, but we were _safe_.”

“We were not, and if we went back, it’d be worse,” Flowers says. “We’ve acted out. He’d take his revenge.”

“He’ll lock us up stricter than before,” the Mockingbird scoffs, finally joining them. “He’ll chain us to our beds, barricade us apart from each other.” She drops her voice, vicious. “He’ll rip out my tongue the next chance he gets. He as much as said so.”

“He…” Kara looks up, startled.

“He only wants to control us,” Flowers says firmly. “But we are not _things_ , Kara.”

“Those are her words!” Kara cries. “Those are her words and she’s – he had – and she –”

“Daisy is going to be fine,” Flowers insists.

“It’s only going to hurt worse out here,” Kara says fearfully.

“Everything hurts,” the Mockingbird spits. “Coward.”

She storms off, back toward the Rig, and Kara bursts into fresh tears. “Why should I go with you?” she weeps, collapsing against Flowers’ shoulder. “Birdie doesn’t want me, I don’t know why any of you want me. I’m broken, I’m a wreck, I’m a coward just like she says. You’re better off without me.”

“Beloved, no,” Flowers says. “Birdie is hurting and scared just like you are, she’s just showing it in a different way. We would all be devastated to lose you. You’re needed here.”

“Why?” Kara wails. “There’s nothing good in me.”

“That’s a lie,” Flowers insists. “That’s the Immortan’s lie, that’s Whitehall’s.” Kara stiffens, so Flowers concentrates on stroking her calm. “Men like that want to make you feel useless so you don’t try to fight back.”

Kara sobs. “I’m so afraid, Flowers,” she says. “I just don’t know what we’re going to _do_.”

“We’re going to go to the Green Place with Melinda and our sisters,” Flowers says firmly. “And we’ll be okay. I promise.”

“Promises are dangerous,” Kara mutters.

“Well, I’m making one anyway,” Flowers says. “Come on, let’s get back. Maybe Daisy is awake.”

“Is she really okay?” Kara sniffles, letting Flowers help her up.

“As I said, the monster is gone,” Flowers says. “Good riddance, I say. Jemma’s taking care of her.”

“But she’ll make it,” Kara presses.

“Yes,” Flowers says. “Jemma is clever and Daisy is strong and it’ll be all right in the end.”

They amble back toward the rig, Flowers gently wiping tears from Kara’s cheeks, and they stop for a bit of water, shying away from Melinda’s gaze but not very well.

“Better?” Melinda asks.

“Enough,” Kara hums. “I’m sorry, Melinda.” It sounds thoroughly dutiful.

“What for?” Melinda murmurs.

“Running,” Kara says. “Being afraid.”

What to say to that? _I figured you would_ isn’t exactly a comfort, though if Melinda is being honest she would admit she’d have pegged Kara for the one to bolt. _We’re all afraid_ is true, but a bit harsh.

“Fear means you’re making your own decisions,” Melinda declares finally. That _could_ be comforting.

“Is Daisy up?” Flowers asks.

“Come in,” Jemma calls softly. The Mockingbird is in the driver’s seat, leaning forward against the wheel, and Jemma and Daisy are still in the back.

“Oh, look who’s awake,” Flowers exclaims softly.

“It’s me,” Daisy says with a tired smirk. “I’m up.”

“Hi, Daisy,” Kara murmurs. “You okay?”

“I feel like I got punched in the gut and I’m bleeding enough to make up for the last five months I’ve missed,” Daisy sighs. “But I’m breathing. Good doctor.”

Jemma preens a bit. “I did what I could,” she says. “I’m doing.”

The Mockingbird draws her knees into her chest, turning her chin away from Flowers and Kara sullenly. “She’s resilient,” she mutters. “You’re resilient, Daze.”

Kara can’t help but read into that, and she shifts sadly against Flowers, though she’s trying not to make too much of her pain. Jemma and Daisy can’t help but notice the unease, though, and they exchange nervous, unsure glances.

“You gonna be ready to get moving soon?” Melinda calls, appearing at the window. “I don’t know how much a lead we’ve got, it’s not worth gambling on.”

“Soon,” Jemma says. “I’ve, I’ve done most all of what I can. We just need to be careful.”

Melinda nods, lips pressed together. “Careful,” she repeats. To Daisy she says, “You feel like you can sit up, at least?”

“I can,” Daisy says, just a bit stubborn. She lifts a hand so the Mockingbird can help pull her up -

And that’s when Melinda sees -

Scrawled on Daisy’s inner wrist -

“Melinda?” Jemma says softly. “Are you alright?”

“You look spooked,” Kara adds, frowning.

Instinctively Melinda draws her arm into her chest, real one in front of the metal as if to hide something. “I’m fine,” she mutters. “I’m just thinking about routes.”

None of them believe her, but there’s nothing they can think of to say in challenge.

 

* * *

 

Nothing too noteworthy happened in the Green Place for years and then everything happened at once. Or, more accurately, happened not in the Green Place necessarily but to its denizens, sometimes outside its confines.

There were the usual scavenging parties they led and attempted raids they foiled; the usual births and deaths and discoveries and losses. The Many Mothers took strangers in - not often, and never men unaccompanied; young boys usually came with their families, grown men usually came with a lover and left in a few days’ time, but that wasn’t law - and sent their own out on explorations and from them learned new things about the state of the world, or what was left of it. They learned that in the Wasteland, they did have something of a reputation, not as dangerous (unless you were an enemy) but as unknown to most and safe for only a few.

They were safety to the gifted.

Oh, nobody was under the impression that they were the _only_ gifted ones, but they did have a reasonable population, and unlike many groups still standing they didn’t have a reputation for manipulating someone’s gifts, using them to achieve an end. They weren’t pacifists, quite, but they were peaceful until threatened, respectful of autonomy.

That, to hear tell, had been what drew young and pretty Eva to their ranks.

Well, she was younger than Melinda and Jiaying both, anyway, but she had a daughter rapidly approaching adolescence. She didn’t identify the father, it was thought possible she couldn’t and none were going to judge her for it, but she did have cause to believe he had a gift, which meant that the girl, sullen Katya, was likely to have one as well. Eva wanted her daughter around people who would understand, who could help.

But that would have been too easy.

The first problem, the Mothers realized, was that, plainly put, young Katya was not good at getting along with others. For the children and adults alike, togetherness and cooperation were all they knew. The Green place was what some of the older women called “communal,” which meant there wasn’t room for selfishness, which meant everyone worked together and at least tried to get along.

Katya, to whatever end, was bad at this. She had a temper, could lash out at the slightest provocation, especially when one of the adults asked something of her. She only wanted to listen to her mother, and her mother never wanted to ask anything of her. She didn’t get on with the other children, either. But Eva was just as averse to listening. She was sure that her daughter just needed support and a safe place. That once she came into her gift, she’d be glad of the Green Place.

(“Do you think she’s right?” Melinda asked Jiaying, who was growing into an expert on such matters.

“Stranger things have happened,” Jiaying said, which meant no.)

Matters were complicated further when one morning Katya up and vanished. Eva fretted and frowned, but eventually conceded the girl might have gone to look for her errant father, whoever he may be. Such a figure of mystery was certainly intriguing. She would go out looking, of course, it was her responsibility (that was more initiative than she’d taken previously), but she couldn’t well go alone. She didn’t even know how to drive one of the Mothers’ motorbikes by herself.

Somehow it wound up being Melinda and her mother who volunteered. (Somehow, of course, meaning that Melinda wanted to keep Jiaying from being upset, and Lian was her partner in adventure, always.) One bike for Lian and Eva, one for Melinda to carry Katya back on. They said farewells (they weren’t naive enough to forget such missions could be final, but they didn’t want to assume) and they set off bravely.

They weren’t the first ones to find Katya, though.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The birthmarking conceit is borrowed and just slightly modified from the television show _Dollhouse_ , more specifically its Epitaphs episodes. I will admit it was the Dichen face-connection that inspired it mostly, but all of my apocalypses are a tiny bit Epitaphs.


	15. if you had told me that what I believed in was true I would have shamelessly broken the oath for you

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When the Rig comes into difficulties, an unlikely alliance is tentatively formed and a primary relationship is mended.

“Jem,” the Mockingbird says, “let me see your leg.”

Jemma pouts, but she’s crammed into the seat beside her and she doesn’t have any excuse. “It feels okay,” she says defensively.

“No, it doesn’t,” the Mockingbird smirks. “Bullet wounds hurt like hell, you don’t need to pretend.”

“It’s not the worst feeling I’ve ever felt,” Jemma mumbles evasively.

“How ‘bout your arm?” Flowers asks.

“Barely stings,” Jemma insists. “Could we… could we not? Discuss this?” She’d rather not think about it, and she can’t imagine anyone else really wants to either.

“Tell me more about this Green Place,” the stranger says, clearing his throat to clear the air.

“It sounds wonderful,” Flowers says eagerly. “Things really _grow_.”

The stranger’s eyebrow goes up. “Really?”

Melinda nods. “I’ve seen it.”

“You have?”

“I grew up there,” she murmurs. “Spent years and years living it.”

“Why’d you leave?” the stranger asks, more bluntly than any of the girls have imagined doing.

“I didn’t,” Melinda mutters.

All the girls prickle.

“I’m sorry,” the stranger says.

Melinda purses her lips. “It’s the same thing that happened to all of us,” she finally says. “All we can do is try to get out.”

“We’re going to succeed,” Daisy insists. “We have to.”

 

* * *

 

They, these runaway girls, wearing bedsheets and clinging to each other, seem so _small_ to Mack, so fragile, but they keep surprising him -

\- startling him -

\- they’re so porcelain -

\- every time one of them screams or cries, all he hears is _he_ , sweet sad weeping -

\- and every time the woman Melinda speaks it hurts -

\- she’s so abrupt, so aching, so miserable, so hopeful in such a sad way -

\- he doesn’t yet know why, but he knows he needs to help.

 

* * *

 

The more accurate explanation, really, was not that they found Katya after someone else had, but that someone else found Katya before finding them. More troubling was the fact that the people who found her were Warboys, soldiers of the Citadel.

“Her father looked like that” Eva breathed, seeing the bunch of them at a distance, surrounding her wayward daughter.

“You know who they are?” Lian asked, frowning.

“Wanderers?” Eva murmured.

“Not quite,” Lian groused. “Warboys. Battle fodder.”

“Bloodthirsty fuckers,” Melinda added. “Did yours know he was a father?”

Eva frowned. “Dunno,” she said which meant probably.

Melinda pulled a face at her own mother then. “So it’s possible he could know to find her,” she sighed. “Little girl of the right age, she’d be his property, he’d think. She’d be valuable to him.”

“Those lords and vassals see people that way,” Lian explained. “‘Specially women and children.”

“They haven’t hurt her yet, though,” Eva said. “She might still be okay. We have to _try_.”

“We will,” Melinda muttered impatiently, “but you have to be aware -”

No telling what, though it was probably awareness of the Warboys and their ways, the fact they’d just spotted them.

“ _Niǎo huà_ ,” Melinda muttered.

“What _have_ we here?” the supposed leader of the bunch crowed.

“Katya!” Eva shouted, running forward.

It unfolded in flashes, then.

The Warboys diving for Eva.

Katya screaming.

Melinda and Lian jumping in on the defense. (Being perfectly honest, Melinda was the only one of the women entirely fit for combat- Katya was only a child, Eva was untrained, Lian was capable but getting old enough for it to complicate matters.)

And then, suddenly, a whisper in the chaos that stilled all the men and Eva too: “ _I want your pain_.”

It came from little Katya (how did it?) who was now glaring at everyone like a demon. Melinda had the sickening realization that the girl had found her gift just as she blacked out.

She woke - hours? - later, in darkness, wrists bound behind her back, slumped against her mother’s shoulder.

“We takin’ them all back to the Immortan?” one of the Warboys was saying. “Guess the fighter might be tamed, and Mommy could prove useful, but the little one’s a freak and a few years shy of useful.”

“She could be worth something,” another said. “If not to save up for wiving, I bet he’d like her little trick.”

Melinda, in a panic nudged her mother awake, eyes wide. Eva and Katya were similarly flopped across from them, looking deceptively serene.

“What’s happening?” Lian asked in their other language, the one the Warboys wouldn’t understand.

“Ambush,” Melinda replied tersely after the same fashion. “Kidnap job.”

“Oh, is that all,” Lian murmured wryly, like this was old hat.

“Her gift manifested,” Melinda continued, nodding at Katya warily. “Some kind of sadistic mind control.”

As if she could tell they were speaking of her, Katya’s eyes snapped open, and the Warboy guarding them closest howled, “Little bitch’s awake!”

Katya roared, then, no other word for it, and lunged for him shoulders first. “I _want_ your _pain_!” she yelled.

That wasn’t _quite_ accurate, though, as first she wanted freed and the Warboy seemingly had no choice but to obey. Then he set about alerting his fellows, and shortly the truck stopped.

It was painfully clear who was in control as things began to flash-happen once again.

Eva was roused, under her daughter’s spell.

One of the Warboys not enthralled aimed his pistol at Katya.

Katya shoved her own mother in front of the bullet.

Melinda tore herself free, and her mother as well.

They dispatched the Warboy who’d done the shooting effortlessly.

Lian focused on distracting the other men.

Katya came for Melinda, howling aspersions, and Melinda screamed.

Then finally, Melinda was the only one still breathing.

She was too stunned to move until another squad of Warboys came upon the truck, and then she was too stunned to resist when they hauled her off, and then, and then, and then.

 

* * *

 

“I can take over, if you wanna sleep,” the stranger offers.

“You wouldn’t know where to head,” Melinda says, smirking at him as they pass a couple buzzards pecking over some ruins. “‘Sides, it might not go over well.” She jerks her head toward the backseat, Kara asleep on Flowers asleep on Daisy asleep on Jemma asleep on the Mockingbird, all of them tranquil.

“They’re right to be wary,” the stranger murmurs. “What’s been done to them… I wouldn’t trust me either.”

“They have good hearts,” Melinda says. “They’re just more bruised than they want to let on.”

“They trust you,” the stranger says, almost curious.

“I was the least of evils,” she smirks, though humorlessly. “I was a way out.”

“You must’ve wanted to take it too, though,” the stranger says. “It was a big risk for you.”

“A necessary risk,” Melinda corrects.

“What are you looking for?” the stranger asks.

“Redemption,” Melinda whispers.

He’s not sure there’s anything he can say to that, but he doesn’t have to, as they’re jarred by the Rig sticking in a trench of -

“Mud,” Melinda hisses, looking out the window.

“What’s goin’ on?” Daisy asks drowsily as all the girls wake.

“We’re stuck,” Melinda mutters, braking abruptly. “I’m gonna…” And instead of answering, she hops out of the Rig. Without a word the stranger follows; in some confusion, the girls all pile out as well.

“Maybe I can… something,” Daisy says doubtfully.

“Get up top, maybe?” the Mockingbird suggests. “Better vantage, or something.”

“I’ll go too,” Jemma says immediately. “In case…”

Daisy squeezes her hand. “You don’t hafta, I’ll be fine.”

“I _wanna_ ,” Jemma insists. “C’mon.”

Limping just slightly, she turns toward the back of the Rig, and Daisy goes after her. There’s a lookout on the back, behind the fuel pod; maybe a place for snipers, originally. There’s a ladder up, and Jemma insists on Daisy being the first up, which isn’t a bad thing, in the end, since Daisy is less easily frightened, and somehow, the Warboy from before has nested up there. Daisy doesn’t startle, though. She just steps aside to let Jemma up and whispers, “Careful.” Jemma Scrambles up and promptly gasps, but she tries to hold back. The Warboy is asleep and he only stirs when Daisy, hands at the ready, clears her throat and says, voice low, “Get up, Warboy.”

His eyes flutter open and he yelps, backing into the corner. “You’re alive,” he gasps.

“No thanks to yours,” Daisy sniffs. “Give me a reason not to upend you over the side of the Rig.”

He makes an anguished noise. “If I go back he’ll end me.”

“Not a good reason,” Jemma hisses.

“You wouldn’t’ve got hurt if I hadn’t buggered it up,” he mumbles. “I was s’posed to take out the Imperator and get you all out. Get you out _safe_.”

“Get us out and back to _him_ ,” Jemma spits. “Where if he has his way he’d rape us to death.”

The Warboy looks startled. “What’s rape?”

Daisy scoffs. “All your lot ever does with women.”

“I’ve never done anything with women,” he says. “I’ve barely met any, ‘sides the Imperator.”

“Rape is when a man lies with a woman, and she doesn’t want him to but he does it anyway,” Daisy sneers.

“Rape is what puts babies we won’t want in our bellies to become real,” Jemma adds, waving to theirs in turn.

The Warboy frowns. “But…”

“I don’t _like_ boys,” Jemma says. “Why would I want one to give me a baby?”

“You don’t?” the Warboy asks, like he didn’t know that was possible.

“Certainly none of the ones ‘round here,” Daisy says. “Gasoline-sniffing, Valhalla-chasing toxic waste.” She rolls her eyes. “I’m almost grateful your electric fuck of a friend shocked the monster out of me.”

“Immortan killed him for what he did to you,” the Warboy mutters. “I saw it, as we drove off. Just like he’ll kill me. I’m a disappointment.”

“Why do you follow him?” Jemma asks, sitting down to get eye-to-eye with him (and off her leg).

“Didn’t have much choice,” the Warboy says, sounding confused. “He’ll take us to Valhalla.”

“Valhalla,” Jemma repeats, “is an element of the mythology of ancient Norse cultures and almost certainly mythological.”

“What’s your names?” the Warboy asks suddenly.

“Daisy and Jemma,” Daisy says, wary, as she too sits. “Yours?”

“Turbo.” He smiles self-effacingly.

Not really a name, but neither is lots of things. The girls shrug at each other, communicating a combination of tentative pity and resigned determination. “You know anything about getting Rigs unstuck?” Daisy asks.

Turbo nods. “I can guess things, anyway.”

“Would you be willing to try?” Jemma asks.

 

* * *

 

“I shouldn’t have,” says the Mockingbird, from behind Kara.

Kara’s heart jumps, but she doesn’t look back. “Shouldn’t have?” she echoes, sounding small.

The Mockingbird makes a funny noise. She’s never been good at saying things like this, but there’s really only one thing she could mean, isn’t there?

“I ran, though,” Kara whispers. “Just like a coward. I deserved that.” She whimpers. “I always deserve it.”

“You don’t,” the Mockingbird insists.

Kara sinks in on herself. “Yes, I do,” she says. “I’ll never be brave like you and the others.”

“You will,” and with that, she sounds more like Kara’s Birdie again. “You _are_. You’re very brave. You’ve made it this far.”

Instinctively, Kara reaches back and the Mockingbird pulls her into her arms. “I feel sometimes like you’re the only thing holding me up,” Kara whispers.

“Where’d we be if we didn’t do that for each other?” the Mockingbird asks softly.

“I mean _you_ ,” Kara exclaims. “Just you. You’re…”

The Mockingbird sighs softly into Kara’s hair. “I’m yours,” she says. It’s not elaborate, but it’s a fact. It just is. “And you’re one of the only good things left in this world. A Green Place without you’d be worthless.” This is almost another apology, and it hangs in the air a minute, heavy.

“Maybe it’s gonna be all right,” Kara murmurs, tugging on the Mockingbird’s hand and lacing their fingers.

It’s the Mockingbird’s opinion that it can’t get much worse, but she doesn’t want to say that to Kara. Not when they’re still on shaky ground, and not when Kara takes things so literal at times. Instead she says, “We won’t be his Wives, that counts for something.”

Kara nibbles her lip. “Not his,” she echoes. “But aren’t we still each other’s? Wives in the true sense, not the lie he made of the word.”

“Are we?” the Mockingbird asks. “It’s a little bit poisoned, the whole idea.”

“What else defines us?” Kara asks. “All five of us.”

“I don’t know,” the Mockingbird mumbles. “Lovers? Can’t we just be each other’s girls?”

“Well, but we’re not,” Kara frets. “Lovers. All of us, I mean. We haven’t been yet, anyway. And we won’t be girls forever.” She sounds upset, but in a different way than before. A way that’s more usual, like she knows there’s something missing in her brain, a word, an idea.

“Does it matter what we call it?” the Mockingbird asks.

“Doesn’t it?” Kara counters, almost desperate.

“Maybe there aren’t even such things in the Green Place,” the Mockingbird suggests. “Melinda hasn’t said. Maybe they just…”

“Maybe,” Kara repeats, but she sounds doubtful. “We should ask. Or, or maybe Jemma knows a better word.”

“We should discuss it,” the Mockingbird agrees.

“Don’t you _want_ to be my - be our wife?” Kara asks faintly.

“I want to be yours, all of yours,” the Mockingbird says. “I just don’t… what does it even mean really, ‘wife’? All it means anymore is lies and filth.”

“We could change it,” Kara offers. “In the Green Place it could mean something else.”

“We’ll ask the others,” the Mockingbird says again. To change the subject she pulls Kara close and kisses her eyelids, then her cheeks, then her lips. “I do love you, you know.”

Kara blinks. They haven’t actually said that before, though it’s implied. “I love you too, Birdie.”

Behind them the Rig rumbles, still stuck but showing progress. “C’mon,” the Mockingbird says. “We should see if they need help.”

“What could we do, really?” Kara asks, giggling.

“We can ask, anyway,” the Mockingbird says. “We should show…”

“Yeah,” Kara hums. “We should.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _niǎo huà_ ; "bullshit" (literally "bird speech")
> 
> Also, this chapter does contain a revised version of [the minific](http://archiveofourown.org/works/5882449/chapters/14018812) this story grew out of. In the process of writing the story out for true (and also in reaction to things that happened in canon) some of the details have changed, over time, but - well, something something evolve. It happens.


	16. used as my jigsaw to saw the missing puzzle piece and now it fits

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They deal with the Rig and deal with some of their pursuers before a horrible revelation is had.

“I dunno if I’m gonna be able to do much,” Daisy says apologetically as she and Jemma come back down. “Maybe with… practice? But it’s…”

“Turbo has some ideas, though,” Jemma says timidly.

“Turbo?” Melinda echoes, sounding astounded (and not in a good way).

Said Warboy pokes his head out from behind the girls, waving shyly. “H’lo, Imperator.”

“What in the _hell_?” Melinda exclaims. “Not six hours ago we were leaving this would-be killer to the vultures and now…?”

“Where’d he even come from this time?” the stranger scoffs.

Turbo scratches the back of his neck. “I’m sorry,” he says instead. “I… it wasn’t right, what I did, an’ I shouldn’t use followin’ the Immortan as an excuse, but it’s the only explanation I have.” He looks at Jemma and Daisy inquisitively, and the both nod. “I want to help you get to where you’re going. To make up for it.”

“Did they put you up to this?” Melinda sniffs. She’s never even _heard_ of a Warboy going humble.

“They coached me,” Turbo answers honestly. They’re many of them guileless, the Warboys; artifice comes with power, and most of them never even think to reach for that. “But I mean it.”

 

* * *

 

The stranger frowns, curious almost. Something about -

\- that look in his eyes -

\- so earnest -

\- it looks like, reminds him of -

\- of -

 

* * *

 

“I think he means it,” the stranger murmurs.

Daisy and Jemma exchange glances. Something’s going on with the stranger, and this isn’t the first thing to make them suspect, but they don’t know how to say it. Instead Daisy says, “He does. And if he doesn’t we can take care of him.”

Melinda glances between the young ones, frowning resignedly. “You’re on probation,” she tells Turbo.

“Thanks, Imperator,” he grins.

“Melinda,” she corrects. “I threw out that title and I’d like it to stay that way.”

“Melinda,” Turbo repeats. “You got anything we could use for leverage? Somethin’ we could…”

“Chains,” Melinda supplies.

“‘Round somethin’ solid,” Turbo continues, scanning the horizon for such an object and settling on a spindly, dead-or-dying lone tree that somehow none of them had noticed. “Like that thing.”

“The tree,” Jemma says, hanging back and trying not to giggle too much (it’s too serious a moment).

“Yeah, the tree thing,” Turbo shrugs. “The chains, ‘round the tree thing, then we hook ‘em to the Rig.”

Melinda nods, and she calls, “Flowers?”

“Yeah?” Flowers shouts back, appearing. “They’re not far off now. Major Aquarius in the lead.”

“They picking up on our radio?” Melinda asks.

Flowers shakes her head. “They’re coming,” she repeats. “Bringing bullets and rage. I can hear it if I focus.”

“Really!” Daisy exclaims. “Hear it like…”

Flowers nods, trying not to smile too much. “I think so.”

“Okay,” Melinda days. “So Daisy, Jemma, you get in the Rig with her and the boy.” If anything happens, the implication is, if Turbo is tempted to unseemly action especially when or if Flowers gets a vulnerable spell, they’ll be there to handle it. “She’s driving, he’s giving direction, you two keep watch.”

“What’re you doing?” Daisy asks.

Melinda nudges the stranger’s shoulder. “We’re gonna add some more resistance,” she says.

She goes for her tools and Flowers heads for the Rig, waving the others along. “He’s coming with us,” she comments, even though it should be a question.

“He’s helping, anyway,” Jemma says.

“Turbo, this is Flowers,” Daisy introduces. “She knows things.”

“And he’s helping,” Flowers says, still not a question. She eyes Turbo critically. “He knows it’s hands-off?”

Turbo huffs, affronted. “I’m not gonna touch you ‘less I’m told,” he says.

“You understand why she asked?” Daisy says pointedly.

He ducks his head, guilty, then glances at Jemma, who of course is the biggest reason they did in fact ask. “Yes,” he mumbles. “I don’t wanna do the thing you were sayin’. I just… it’s just you’re so _chrome_. Really something to see.”

“Can’t deny that,” Flowers smirks, tossing her hair. “Let’s get in.”

They all settle, Flowers in the driver’s seat and Turbo beside her, Jemma (holding the bolt-cutter as a potential weapon) and Daisy (hands tentatively outstretched) huddled in the back. Flowers punches the code to start the engine and Turbo makes a noise best described as purring when it rumbles. It’s funny, but then it isn’t at the same time.

“Rev it,” Melinda shouts from outside.

Flowers revs it.

“Are they really coming from the Bullet Farm?” Jemma asks as they struggle with the mud.

“They are,” Flowers says. “They’re pushing ahead of the others, going a little harder. Major Aquarius wants to make us bleed.”

Turbo shivers. “Never liked him,” he says. “Sick meanie.”

“He gets off on pain,” Flowers says flatly. “He likes being hurt sometimes and he likes doing the hurting all the time.”

“Gets off?” Turbo asks.

“Derives pleasure from,” Jemma explains.

“Sexual pleasure,” Daisy adds. “D’you all not talk about that?”

Turbo shrugs, wrapping arms around himself. “Warboys?” he asks. “Some of them do, I guess. I never really thought about it. No reason. ‘Sides, you wanna drive, you have to work for it.”

Jemma tilts her head. “You’d rather get good at something than get laid.”

“S’pose,” Turbo says, sounding uncomfortable.

“Go harder!” Melinda calls.

“They’re getting closer,” Flowers murmurs.

Finally, _finally_ , the Rig budges, slow at first then more solidly. Daisy and Jemma and Turbo all cheer, Flowers breathes a sigh of relief, from outside the others seem to be similarly calmed. Flowers gets them out of the mud and then stops the Rig again, hopping out to yell, “C’mon!” before clambering into the back.

Kara and the Mockingbird are first to return, holding hands, and Jemma hurriedly introduces, “Kara, Birdie, this is Turbo, he’s not bad anymore. Turbo, Kara and the Mockingbird.”

“Did he just spontaneously appear?” the Mockingbird asks.

“He was camped out on the back of the Rig,” Daisy says. “It doesn’t matter, really. He’s okay.”

Despite these mediocre endorsements, the girls still eye him a bit critically as they settle in the back. Melinda gets in next, then the stranger, settling on either side of Turbo, who for his part looks awed.

“Hurry,” Flowers says, glancing back unnecessarily.

The cadre of Bullet Farm soldiers is close enough everyone can hear their engines roaring, and Melinda sighs as she guns it. “In a second I’m gonna take my hands off the wheel to deal with these assholes,” she mutters. “Turbo, you’re closest so I’ll need you to steer, and if you mess things up it’s a fair bet someone here will kill you. Got it?”

“Got it,” Turbo says. He reaches for the wheel as Melinda reaches for her gun and as she leans out the window, firing off a couple rounds before any of them have time to brace for it, he does his best to keep them going straight ahead.

“Shit!” Jemma yelps, squeezing her eyes shut and hiding against Daisy’s shoulder.

“Sounds like a flat tire,” Flowers says, “at least one corpse, but they’re still going.”

“Here,” the stranger says, frowning. “Lemme out.” He grabs a gun for himself.

“What are you doing?” the Mockingbird asks, sounding surprisingly concerned.

“Distraction,” the stranger says. “You go on ahead, wait for me over that dune. If I’m not back soon, go on without me.”

Melinda slides back into her seat and nudges Turbo over, gritting her teeth. “ _Jí xiang rú yì_ ,” she murmurs.

 

* * *

 

“Give it up,” Rose sighs, slumping back against the seat. “They’ll keep on outrunning you forever if that’s what it takes.”

Ward grumbles and slams his hand against the dash. After disposing of Sparks, he decided it was time to pay his madam (sequestered in a fortified van of her own, well-guarded) another visit. “You’d be surprised,” he says, trying to seem menacing. (He’s not used to having to _try_. It doesn’t sit well with him.) “Might just need to break them more.”

Rose rolls her eyes. “You’ve tried your damnedest to do that already,” She says. “Could’ve killed your favored Daisy, from all accounts.’

“She’s still alive,” he mutters. “I’d know if she wasn’t.”

“Yet you still wasted your own soldier,” she continues, intending to aggravate him by reminding him of his losses.

“He didn’t end my Daisy, but he doubtless killed my child,” he hisses.

“Stop calling her _yours_ ,” Rose spits. “She isn’t. None of them are. The longer you think in that backward way…”

“You’re backward,” he retorts childishly. “I’m getting tired of this. Give me one good reason not to gut you and leave you to die.”

 

* * *

 

“Soon,” Kara frets, pacing beside the Rig. “What’d he mean, soon? I wish he’d been specific.”

“It’s all right,” Flowers soothes. “He’s all right. Hear any cars?”

“No,” Kara says.

“So that’s good,” Daisy chimes in. “Means there’s no one still on our tail. He’ll be back soon.”

“How could one man take down all those goons?” Jemma asks, frowning.

“I think he could,” Turbo suggests. He’s sat on the hood of the Rig, looking contemplative. “There were rumors about him, when they brought him into the Citadel. He’s some tough… someone.”

“I could see that,” the Mockingbird says. “He’s a sturdy guy.”

“He is,” Turbo agrees, a little wistful. All the girls stop to watch this. Somehow it’s not a surprise, this wistfulness.

“It’ll be all right,” Flowers says again.

“We could sing?” Kara suggests hopefully.

Jemma nods. “Yeah,” she agrees, scrunching up her face thoughtfully. After a moment she belts out, “ _There is a part I can’t tell about the dark I know well._ ”

It’s one of their gloomier songs, but it’s one they relate to deeply. It’s got a story, about girls who’ve been hurt like they have, and they can hit the harmonies in a way that satisfies them. What comes as a surprise is that from far behind them, where she’s seeing to yet more repairs, Melinda starts to hum along, seeming like she doesn’t actually realize she’s even doing it.

The stranger saunters up as they finish, mumbling his compliments. “They won’t be keeping after us,” the stranger reports. He dumps an armload of guns and ammunition on the ground dramatically.

“Did you really kill all of them?” Daisy asks, eyes wide.

The stranger shrugs. “There weren’t that many, really, just a couple cars’ worth,” he says. “And one of them had this.” He lifts a strap over his shoulder, attached to which is an axe that glints in the moonlight. “S’more my comfort area, fighting that way.”

Melinda nods, apparently amused. “Everyone’s got their preferences,” she says. “Sure there’s no survivors?”

“Positive,” the stranger says. “By the time the others catch up, if they catch up, all they’ll see is carrion.”

 

* * *

 

After the day she’s had (has it really only been a day?) it’s no wonder Daisy is the first to fall asleep, lolling against Jemma’s shoulder and closing her eyes as they pass another arrangement of sparse trees and crows. She’s still bleeding, but only just, and it feels like a bad menstrual cycle - painful but bearable. Jemma tries to stay awake to watch over her, but she’s near as exhausted and it doesn’t take but a few minutes of Flowers petting her hair to get her shutting her eyes too. Next is the Mockingbird, dropping her head against the window and her arm around Kara’s shoulder, pulling her close. Then Kara dozes off, snoring gently, nuzzled against the Mockingbird’s chest.

Flowers stays up awhile, watching as Melinda drives them past dunes and swamps, watching as the stranger relaxes and finally shuts his eyes too, watching as Turbo seems to get exhausted all at once and passes out on the stranger’s arm. Very interesting. Finally she dozes off too, her arm draped over Jemma’s waist.

And for a little while, it’s just Melinda and the Fury Road. Expanses of desert and sky, sand and stars. It’s almost peaceful, or it would be in other circumstances. She has a chance to reflect for the first time since they left the Citadel: to let her mother’s voice chide her (she could have planned better, she knows she could have) and congratulate her (she did a good job getting them out of danger in the end, she figured it out), to guide her (just a bit more northerly, then she’ll be there, it’s just past the swamp, it must be) and to give her support (they’re all so close to being safe, maybe they’re not the children she might have had if she’d stayed home but they’re a sort of family).

She has time, too, to wonder over her earlier discovery of Daisy’s wrist. Daisy, a daughter of the Green Place by rights? She certainly has the birthmark to suggest it, and her gift - her shaking, the tremors she can create - could certainly belong to an angel-child. Daisy doesn’t remember anything about her possible home; her only childhood memories, she’s said, are of running unchecked through the Citadel. Even still…

Daisy looks like she could be one of their tribe. She could have even been borne by…

And Melinda has a chance to think of Jiaying. Her _àirén_ , her best girl - she’s got to be there, still. There’s no way - especially with her gift of regeneration - she wouldn’t be. And Melinda she would know. She’s no angel, but surely she would know if something had happened to Jiaying.

After all this time, after so much has happened, she’s not sure she deserves Jiaying’s affection, but Jiaying has certainly suffered too and - if nothing else, Jiaying deserves to be around to meet these brave souls, the girl who might be…

Sun rises and still the others are asleep. In a way she wants to shut her eyes and get the rest she really hasn’t since she was taken, but she knows she couldn’t possibly, even if the stranger took the wheel like he offered. She couldn’t rest until they’re among the trees, safe and secure.

They have to get to the Green Place.

She drives and drives and finally they’re approaching an old-world tower, radio maybe though all the wires are long-gone.

There’s a woman up in the rigging.

It - is it -

She slams on the brakes.

The stranger is the first to wake, blinking blearily as the new location comes into focus. “Everything all right?” he asks.

Melinda nods to the tower. “I know this.”

“Looks like a trap,” the stranger says.

“It’s a trap I know,” Melinda mutters, and she climbs out, slamming the door.

Turbo startles awake and immediately blushes, visible even under what remains of his white paint. “Where’s the - where’s Melinda?” he asks with some effort.

“Outside,” the stranger says, looking at Turbo curiously.

The girls all start to wake too, rubbing their eyes and stretching and making kitten noises. “I don’t see any trees,” Jemma murmurs.

“Maybe they’re beyond the dunes,” the Mockingbird suggests.

“Are we really at the Green Place?” Kara asks.

“Where’s the green?” Daisy whispers.

“It’s gone,” Flowers says darkly, not yet opening her eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _jí xiang rú yì_ ; "may you be as lucky as you desire"


	17. and suddenly the pulse is lost and stillness comes at zero cost and

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The revelation spreads, Melinda tries to adjust, and once introductions are made, stories begin to be told.

That word, _gone_ , rattles around in Mack’s skull.

Gone, like everything -

\- gone like what came before -

\- gone like the lie of the old world -

-gone like faces and voices that _aren’t_ -

\- gone like _him_ -

 

* * *

 

Jiaying, looking no older than when Melinda last saw her, is perched atop a platform in the tower, weeping histrionically (as the stranger said, a trap, a lure) and nude (she never was shy about her body, though she wasn’t an exhibitionist either, that’s not what this is about). She gets louder as Melinda approaches, though surely not from recognizing her, it must just be part of the game.

What must Melinda look like now? Hair shorn like a boy’s (she was never vain about it, but it used to be longer, long enough to brush and play with, long enough to tug in a fit of passion) and skin smeared with grease and greasepaint both (it doesn’t ever rub off, not really) and clothes the opposite of fine (she wasn’t vain about those either, but her trousers and belts are alarmingly utilitarian, almost soldierlike - and isn’t that what she is now?) and a War Rig smoking behind her.

And her arm.

That above all sets the Melinda of now apart from the Melinda of before. She feels, not for the first time, like it was her soul amputated instead of her arm, all those thousands of days ago; or like her soul had been in her arm perhaps, her right arm, with Jiaying’s careful script inked on the skin. That careful script gone like the rest of it, buried in some pit of bones. Jiaying wouldn’t - nobody would - recognize the odd scrap collection hanging off her elbow. It doesn’t look like it belongs to a daughter of the Green Place.

She clears her throat.

“I am one of the Many Mothers!” Melinda yells, this is the old call, a structure that at least hopefully proves her identity further. “My initiate mother was Maurissa Pacheco.” She pauses to swallow her grief and to study Jiaying’s body language - she’s clambered to her feet, she’s peering down with her head tilted inquisitively. Old Maurissa served as initiate mother to more than one girl after all. “I am the daughter of Lian May.”

A beat.

Melinda stares up at Jiaying, Jiaying stares down at Melinda. There’s a silent oscillation of energy in the air between them.

Jiaying gives a feral yell and throws on a cloak before sliding down a rope to the ground. From behind her, behind the dune, the roar of motorbikes sounds, and before Melinda has a chance to react Jiaying has run up to wrap her in an embrace.

“Is it really you?” Jiaying whispers, pulling back but only enough to press her forehead to Melinda’s.

“Much as it can be,” Melinda says, voice thick.

The bikes come to a stop behind them, and Melinda is dimly aware of some figures hanging back as others rush up, but she pays it no real mind.

“This is our Melinda,” Jiaying exclaims, clearly joyful.

“Really!” shouts - good grief, it is, it’s little Alisha, only not so little anymore, her hair still glows and her eyes still track to Jiaying every twenty seconds to seek her approval.

“Melinda Qiaolian,” says Anne, who was born a few summers after her. “We thought you were lost to us. We hoped you weren’t.”

“How long has it been?” asks Akela, grown as well, and - Melinda can’t help but notice, but she tries not to stare, she knows how that feels - with a patch strapped over her right eye.

“Seven-thousand eight-hundred sixty-three days,” Melinda says darkly, glancing down (at Jiaying’s hands wrapped around her own).

“Melinda, what happened to your mother?” asks Elena, tan and bright-eyed as ever.

Melinda shakes her head. “She died,” she says, and she nods solemnly as each of the others clutches a fist of empty air to her chest. “Before we even reached the Citadel.”

“The Citadel!” exclaims Camilla, instinctively drawing into a fighting stance (she was always predisposed to combativeness). “Is that where your engine came from?”

“Yes,” Melinda says, nodding back to the stranger, Turbo, and the girls, waving to invite them to step outside and watching carefully as they begin to do so. “And the people in it.”

“Who are they?” Anne asks curiously.

“It’s a long story,” Melinda says, “and not mine to tell.” They’ll know from that that it’s a sad tale.

“Pretty,” Elena murmurs. “And the girls, too.”

“They’ve been through hell,” Melinda says lowly. As they get closer she brightens some and adds, “I can’t wait for them to see it.”

“See what?” Akela asks, furrowing her brow.

“The Green Place,” Melinda murmurs. “ _Lǜsè dì Dìfāng_.”

“It’s gone,” Flowers announces, wrapping her arms around herself as if bracing for something. “I saw it. It’s all gone.” Kara and the Mockingbird, Daisy and Jemma, both pairs clinging to each other tight, all of them nod agreement.

Melinda’s jaw drops. “Is that true?” she asks Jiaying.

Jiaying just glances down, lips pressed together sadly. “You must have passed it.”

“The creepy place with all the crows,” the Mockingbird says.

“It was the soil,” Jiaying explains. “We had to get out.”

“It was toxic,” Alisha adds. “The water got poisoned.”

“The crows came, eager to pick our bones,” Elena says.

“We couldn’t grow anything,” Anne concludes. “Most of us…” Again, she clutches her hand to her chest, and the others mimic her.

“If you're... then who are they?” Kara asks shyly, nodding to the cluster of women hanging back - all Melinda’s age or older.

“Wanderers like we are now,” Jiaying explains, gesturing for them to come over. “All the danger out there, it made sense for us to stick together.”

“It’s gone,” Melinda mumbles. “It… we’re…”

“Welcome to _Láishì_ ,” Jiaying sighs. “Our Afterlife.”

Melinda only barely hears her, though. She’s staggering up the dune, she’s unlatching her mechanical arm and letting it drop, she’s hardly registering anything.

She was too late.

She failed.

 

* * *

 

“Let her be,” the stranger mutters.

“I’ll go to her soon,” Jiaying says softly. “Ah…” She raises an eyebrow at him, prompting him to introduce himself, but he just shrugs.

“I’m Jemma,” exclaims Jemma, ever-eager to ameliorate awkward situations. She holds her hand out for a shake. “It’s very nice to meet you, Miss…”

“Jiaying,” says Jiaying. “Just Jiaying.” She tries to match the girl’s enthusiasm as she recites, “And that’s Anne, Camilla, Alisha, Akela, Elena.” She indicates each of the Green Place’s orphaned daughters.

“I’m Daisy,” says Daisy, eyeing their new acquaintance curiously.

“Kara.”

“I’m called the Mockingbird, mostly.”

“Flowers.”

“And, ah, I’m Turbo,” finishes Turbo.

Anne nods, surveying them each in turn, and one of the younger others says, waving with an arm that stops just below the elbow, “We’re Isabelle and Victoria, technically. Old-fashioned names for new-fangled queers, but we’ll take any of the diminutives. Even if Belle’s a little ironic and Vicky's a bit twee.”

“And I’m Peg,” one of the four older women says.

Jemma yelps.

“Peg as in Margaret?” Daisy asks. “As in Ca-”

“The tall one is Dot, the fair-haired one is Violet, the eager one is Angel,” Flowers supplies, smirking a bit, having apparently had this revelation as well.

“‘Scuse me, but am I missin’ something?” Angel asks, frowning.

“Flowers can see the future,” Kara says, at the same time Jemma squeaks, “We know Rose!”

“Rose!” Peg cries. “Rose of the reddish hair, nearsighted Rose, Rose who - they took her to the Citadel?”

“Her hair would be more gray by now,” Dot cuts in, smirking.

“Who’s Rose?” asks Victoria, whose long hair looks streaked with henna.

“Rose used to run with us, years and years ago,” Violet explains. “Rose is a friend.”

“The Immortan - the old one, anyway - kidnapped her,” the Mockingbird adds. “She served as our… housemother, is one way to put it.”

“Who were you, then?” Alisha asks.

“Breeding stock,” Kara spits. “Nothing more.”

“I’m…” Jiaying holds up a hand, then steps away to speak to Melinda. She can sense private stories pretty well, and this seems to be one.

“We should get a fire started, see what food we can dredge up,” Anne says, nodding to her fellows, and soon it’s just the girls and Peg’s group left huddled together.

“You were his,” Peg says softly, not asking because she can tell.

“He thought we were,” Daisy nods. “He called it love.”

“Wives, he titled us,” Jemma adds.

“He’d have kept us there forever,” Flowers sighs.

“Hurting us, fucking us, wishing we’d worship him,” the Mockingbird snarks.

“Melinda got us out,” Kara finishes.

“And Rose?” Angel presses. “Did she…”

“She made us leave her behind,” Jemma chokes out. “I don’t know what they’ve done to her by now, but she meant - she meant to protect us. She…”

“She was the closest we had to family,” Flowers says.

“Rose is a tough old broad,” Dot says, trying for a smile that’s more like a smirk. “She’s giving them hell, I bet.”

 

* * *

 

Melinda has collected herself by the time Jiaying makes her way over, and she doesn’t speak as they slowly rejoin the others. For a while, it’s just a camping trip: Elena and Akela make something to eat, Kara and the Mockingbird are given leave to fetch water from the Rig, Anne and Camilla get the fire going, Victoria goes to the store of jackets, blankets, and other fabric bits to supplement the girls’ gauze.

They sit.

“Were you really in pictures, Angel?” Flowers asks, eyes wide.

“A few,” Angel replies with a shrug. “I was no movie star, but I made a living.”

“That must have been wonderful,” Flowers sighs.

“Better clothes, anyway,” Angel chuckles.

“You’re so vain,” Peg croons, nudging Angel fondly.

“You love it,” Angel retorts cheerfully.

“It sounds lovely,” Jemma chimes in. “Having a _wardrobe_.”

“She’s teasing, sort of,” Akela smirks. “But you should ask her to sing.”

“She loves singing, she sings when she’s happy, especially,” Peg explains.

“So does Birdie!” Kara exclaims. “She’s got so many songs. Rose had some, too,” she adds in afterthought.

“I imagine she got them largely from this one,” Dot chuckles waving at Angel.

“I’m glad,” Angel says to the ex-Wives. “That maybe it could help you in there.”

All the girls look a little uncomfortable, so Elena says, “There’s a few songs we could teach you, too.”

“We try to share what history we have,” Anne explains. “The world before deserves that respect, at least.”

“Miss Rose thought the same,” Daisy says. “She’d tattooed so many stories on her own skin.”

“It’s one of the only ways we know anything,” the Mockingbird shrugs. “Anything serious, anyway.”

“She sounds like quite a woman,” Jiaying says. “You all do.” She takes a moment to look each girl in the eye and ends with Melinda, who shies away.

“You’ve sorta got us all at a disadvantage, though,” Dot chimes in. “You’ve heard about us, but we haven’t heard about you.”

Melinda flinches. She doesn’t have anything to tell at least not yet. “I grew up in the… with them,” she says, nodding to Jiaying and Anne and the others “Then I wasn’t there anymore.”

“She’s brave,” the stranger says. “Helped them all…”

“I grew up there, at the Citadel,” Jemma offers. “Just Miss Rose and books and stories until Daisy came along. She was on her own, truly, getting by by her wits. She’s very courageous.”

“Well, Jemma is brilliant,” Daisy says, not to be outdone. “She knows so many things. She’s practically a doctor, she knows so much.”

“So do you, you know things,” Jemma counters. “All of you do. Flowers, she can see the future and she knows how to _drive_.”

“She’s from the Wasteland,” Daisy nods.

Flowers smiles wryly. “Maybe we all were, once,” she says. “I just remember more things. Birdie’s seem some of it, too.”

“The Mockingbird was a proper hero out there,” Daisy grins.

“More Robin Hood than anything else,” the Mockingbird demurs.

“She’s a fighter, though,” Kara says. “Defends us all.”

“You, too,” the Mockingbird murmurs, nudging her. “Different way, maybe, but you fight too.”

“And she’s sweet,” Flowers says. “No matter what, Kara’s the sweetest.”

“You love each other very much,” Jiaying says, and again she looks around, though this time her gaze lingers on Daisy. “It’s inspiring.”

“We just know we’d do anything for each other,” Kara murmurs.

“They’re tough in a way I didn’t know possible,” Turbo offers.

“And what’s your story?” Camilla asks him.

He glances at Jemma and Daisy, then the stranger, then shrugs.

“Rose told us all about your adventures,” the Mockingbird says, changing the subject. “How did you… she said you got split up?”

Peg nods, visibly distressed. “It’s not pleasant,” she warns.

“We’d like to know,” Daisy says, off the others’ nods.

“It’s not the worst story we’ve ever heard, I’m sure,” Jemma says.

“Or lived,” the Mockingbird adds.

“Is that all right?” Angel asks Jiaying. “If we have story time.”

“It’s important,” Jiaying agrees softly.

“All cards on the proverbial table,” Anne suggests.

“Then here we go,” Peg says.


	18. ill at ease to understand at all, and you once told me I'd relent, we drew partitions in cement

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everyone catches each other up on their life stories; Violet and Jemma consider options; Melinda confides in Jiaying.

The story Peggy tells is this.

The Warboys seemed to have decided she was the leader, and they took a particular interest in hurting her. They wanted to make an example of her, maybe even to string up her bones in warning: all ye who oppose the Immortan beware, for this is your fate.

(“Yeah, their whole lot is pretty constantly violent,” the Mockingbird says grimly. “And once they pick a target, they go to town.”

“What town?” Kara asks.)

They beat Peg bloody, dragged her away from the others to take that bit of safety from her. They kept trying to interrogate her - why did she, why did _they_ , insist on opposing lawful men? Why did they eschew (Peg’s word, they know, no Warboy would say “eschew”) tradition and try to go against the natural order of things?

None of her answers were satisfying, which meant each time she gave one they hit her harder.

She hit back, though. Not at first, but when she heard a scream, maybe her Angel’s, in the distance she started to fight. She had to, to get back to her girl. Angel needed her. All of them needed her.

(“I admit,” Peg says wryly, “I had a habit of taking things on myself.”

“Had?” Violet laughs.)

She managed to dispatch one of the few, then another, then another. They might have been dead or just unconscious, it didn’t matter. She was able to steal one of their accursed ATVs and tear off in the direction of the vehicles on the horizon, the rest of the War Party.

“Stop there,” Angel says. “My turn now.”

None of the girls speak. They don’t want to affect the story in any way.

 

* * *

 

The story Angel tells is this.

She was the damsel of the bunch, that was clear. The one of them, perhaps, they thought might be most easily turned into a potential breeder for the Immortan. They pulled her out of the fight early; they didn’t want to damage the goods.

She didn’t know any of this for a certainty, of course. All she knew was she screamed and then she was out (“it was probably chloroform, just like old detective stories,” Angel adds in an aside, somehow managing to find humor in it) and then she was packed in the back of some off-road vehicle with the remnant of a bloodied nose caked on her face. She wanted to panic, but she knew better.

Soon enough (she lost track of time back there) they stopped. She figured the worst, of course, but luck was on her side.

There, when she managed to wiggle her way free, was her Peg, bruised and battered, triumphant over each and every godforsaken Warboy.

“We should find the others," Angel said, and Peg nodded in agreement.

 

* * *

 

The story Dot tells is this.

Despite the fact that she was a better fighter than these Warboys (she took out at least one of them, not that it made enough of a dent given the way they brought five times the men they even “needed” for the job) they did a number on her, in the end. Broke a couple ribs, cut her up some, tried to choke her out. She pretended to pass out to get them to drop her.

The plan was to stay down for long enough to throw them off, then jump up, grab a gun, waste them all. By the time she pushed herself out of the sand (she might have actually passed out for a little while, no telling) the others were gone.

So, she picked herself up and set out.

She played tough about it, but Dot had grown attached to the other women. Her relationship with Peg had begun antagonistically, of course, the proverbial criminal-and-cop dynamic, but there had always been a measure of respect in that. She’d always thought Peg too intelligent for her male counterparts and indeed for a life of legality. Living in the Wasteland, rebels and antiheroes, put Peg on the side of things that Dot found appropriate. It became easier to really like her then.

She’d got fond of the others, too: Angel who had more nerve than sense sometimes, Rose who she could never get a rise out of no matter how hard she tried, Violet-or-Vi who could fix anything with a smile. They had a rhythm. It was important enough to her to want to keep.

So she wandered. She wandered and she looked and she tried not to stir things up because it would have been counter-productive to her purpose.

“A truly impressive amount of self-discipline for her,” Violet chimes in. “My turn.”

 

* * *

 

The story Violet tells is this.

She’d been beat to shit and shoved on the back of a motorbike - Warboys who meant to take the long way (“the kind of Warboys opposite of you, who did the things the Immortan did,” Jemma whispers to Turbo) - but they hadn’t tied her down. They didn’t expect that she’d have the nerve to launch herself off a moving vehicle.

It broke her arm, but she got away. She found a band of travelers, some men, some women, with enough supplies for her to fix herself up and get her back to health. They were sympathetic. They knew how things could go out here.

It was with them that Dot found her, and - well. They were grateful to have found each other. That was all.

(“That wasn’t all,” Angel smirks.)

They struck out on their own after a while, and they found a bike, then they found Peg and Angel, then - it got fairly wild.

 

* * *

 

“They found Toria and I in the middle of the Waste, lost and hopeless,” Isabelle interjects.

“They found us about to run out of luck,” Victoria corrects archly, rolling her eyes. “ _This_ one had got in some kind of squabble with other itinerants. Men.” She rolls her eyes bitterly, and Turbo squirms, taking it personally. “They’d messed up her arm, and if we’d been found even a day later she might’ve been gone.” It’s clear this still weighs on her.

“Luckily, Vi was able to help,” Dot chimes in.

“All I could do was amputate,” Violet sighs, clearly disappointed in herself. “But I could do that. I insisted they stay with us awhile so I could watch her recovery -”

“But we got kinda used to the old girls,” Isabelle says.

“Safety in numbers,” Victoria amends. “They didn’t mind us tagging along, so we tried to make ourselves useful.”

“Even one-handed I’m one of the better fighters still standing,” Isabelle brags.

“That’s true, I’ll give her that,” Peg smirks.

“That how you got joined up with these guys, too?” the Mockingbird asks, nodding to the former inhabitants of the Green Place.

Jiaying nods, all solemnity. “We hadn’t found _Láishì_ yet,” she says. “We were adrift. Losing souls constantly.”

Melinda winces. “I should have been there,” she mumbles. “I should have been able to help.”

“It’s not on you,” Elena says gently, patting Melinda’s knee.

“There was nothing any of us could have done,” Anne adds. “The land had turned almost overnight.”

“Like someone had done that to us intentionally,” Camilla says, rolling her eyes.

She always did have a suspicious mind, but Jiaying waves the conspiracy away. “We were so few by then that we welcomed the additional company and resources,” she continues.

“It never hurts having a doctor,” Dot cuts in, nudging Violet with something like pride.

“Or an assassin,” Violet retorts playfully.

“You’re all very useful,” Akela smirks.

“We found this place after a while,” Jiaying adds. “And it’s not perfect, but it’s safe enough.”

“We’ve made it comfortable,” Alisha defends. “It suffices.”

“It won’t hold forever,” Peg shrugs. “But it’s good enough for now.”

“Would you teach us one of those songs?” Kara asks suddenly, sensing (correctly) that the subject needs changed.

Elena and Akela start consulting, working through what they might share, and some of the women start to drift off to their own pursuits. Melinda is the first, surprising no one, and it’s similarly predictable that Jiaying follows, even if it’s at a distance; from there, everyone wanders.

 

* * *

 

“You’re not all right,” Violet murmurs, coming up on Jemma where she’s sat.

“I had to be sick,” Jemma says, voice small. “I don’t feel up to more group time just yet.”

Violet nods, making a humming noise in the back of her throat. “Do you want me to leave?”

Jemma shakes her head. “You’re fine,” she sighs. “Y’know, funny thing about morning sickness, it’s not always in the morning.”

“You’re pregnant,” Violet supposes. “Who’s the father, Turbo?”

“Oh, no!” Jemma exclaims. “I only just met him, and we’re not - I mean, he doesn’t - or anyway it seems like he doesn’t - and I certainly don’t, I’m Daisy and everyone’s.”

Violet smiles wanly. “So it’s the Immortan’s,” she says. “That was my first guess, but it’s a much worse option. I wanted…”

“No,” Jemma says. “I don’t think I’d want it no matter, but especially if it’s a little… warlord junior.”

“Could be a girl,” Violet suggests.

“Nah.” Jemma pauses. “I don’t want his anything, or anyone’s, at least inside me.”

“Your prerogative,” Violet agrees.

“Besides, it’s gonna kill me,” Jemma continues. “I’m - my spine, when I was a child…” She ducks forward, eases her shawl up to show the scar on her back.

“You don’t know that for a certainty,” Violet says, maybe trying to soothe. “Lots of women with scoliosis have been mothers.”

“Maybe in the before,” Jemma says. “I don’t trust what they did to fix me, though. I don’t trust that they weren’t just fixing me up for one-time use. A disposable womb.”

Violet frowns, but she understands the worry. “I admit I’ve never assisted with such a birth,” she says. “But I would be…”

“We haven’t got the tools,” Jemma interrupts. “Nor the space. At this point it’s me or the spawn. Least my odds out here are a little better.”

“Daisy was pregnant too, wasn’t she?” Violet prompts.

“She was,” Jemma nods. “One of the trash Warboys shocked it out of her. Nearly killed her, but she’s strong, and ‘sides…”

“It got the thing gone,” Violet says.

“Yes,” Jemma replies, a little bitter.

“Do you want the same thing?” Violet asks softly.

Jemma blinks. “You mean…”

“I know a recipe for a tea,” Violet says. “It’d do the job.”

 

* * *

 

“What happened out there, Qiaolian?” Jiaying asks.

It’s clever, using that other name. Nobody’s said it in so long, it startles her into truthfulness, and besides that Jiaying always did prefer it, the rarity and thought behind it.

“Too much,” Melinda murmurs. “Katya and Eva are dead. My mother is dead. Countless others I couldn’t name are dead and it’s all my fault, only my fault.”

“How?” Jiaying asks. “You were taken by that monster. You did, I assume, only what you had to.”

Melinda shakes her head, just once. “What I had to do was horrible,” she says. “I killed the girl.”

Jiaying frowns, saying, “Sit.”

They both sit.

“She’d run off,” Melinda says. “Why, we’ll never know, but she got found by Warboys.” She notices Jiaying flinch, but she’s not sure how to fix it, so she presses on. “They hadn’t hurt her, though, not yet. She’d found her gift.”

“Oh no,” Jiaying says, reaching gently for Melinda’s hand before she has a chance to worry about it.

“I’m still not sure how to describe it,” Melinda continues. “Some kind of mind control? Compulsion, perhaps. She only used it for cruelty, though. She kept saying - I can still hear it - ‘I want your pain.’ She had most of the men under her control when we found them, and most of them stayed under it while we were in their Rig. She had them attack. She was controlling her mother, too. She compelled her to take a bullet for her.”

“I wish I had prevented this,” Jiaying whispers, sounding angry.

“They all fought,” Melinda says. “I don’t know what exactly happened, it happened so fast. They must have killed my mother.” She clutches her fist to her chest. “Katya was going to kill me, so I…”

“Shush,” Jiaying says, leaning closer, resting her chin on Melinda’s shoulder.

“They collected me, after that,” Melinda mumbles. “The Immortan’s others. This happened.” She lifts her metal arm. “It was one horror after another. I can’t… it’s not…”

“It’s not anything you have to explain right now, or until you’re ready,” Jiaying assures. “You’re out of there, back to us, and you’ve saved those girls.” That, she means to imply, more than makes up for… but she won’t say that in so many words. It doesn’t always help.

Melinda glances down at their hands, at Jiaying’s wrist, and suddenly she blurts, “I think Daisy might be one of us.”

“What?” Jiaying exclaims.

“She’s got a birthmark,” Melinda explains. “I didn’t see it until today, but it’s there. Daisy, and a little flower.”

Jiaying’s breath catches. “You’re sure?” she asks, sounding - to Melinda’s shock - like she might cry.

“Jiaying?” Melinda asks, frowning. “Jiaying, _àirén_?”

“I’ll send Alisha to look in on you,” Jiaying mutters as she scrambles to her feet. “I need to - if - I - I’m sorry.” And she’s gone.


	19. there's a scroll you've yet to read out loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Flowers and Daisy get very different messages of hope; the Mockingbird and Kara make friends.

“You kill people with that, then?”

Anne looks up from the rifle she’s cleaning to see Flowers standing there, wrapped in a blanket knit with old lost tribal patterns.

“Can’t you tell?” Anne asks, almost smirking.

“I see the future, not read minds,” Flowers corrects. “And that’s not all-inclusive, plus I’m only just getting used to it again.”

Anne tilts her head. “The swine figured out a way to turn that off?” she supposes. “There have always been rumors, but…”

“My gift and Daisy’s too,” Flowers says. “Dunno how he was doing it, but whatever it was, Daisy’s started coming back once she was pregnant. Mine faded back once we were gone out of there.”

“Hope he rots,” Anne says.

“That’s the consensus,” Flowers nods.

“You grew up out here?” Anne says, though they’ve already heard as much.

“Wandering and knowing,” Flowers agrees. “I saw what I needed to know to survive, I guess.”

“Did you… have anyone?” Anne asks hesitantly. “To guide you, teach you about your gift?” That’s how she knows it done, that’s how it was done in the Green Place. She was no angel-child, but she saw.

Flowers just shakes her head. “I had a bit of folklore from - I guess she was my grandmother, maybe. But she died early and I was on my own.” She smirks. “Not even a name to my name.”

“Where did Flowers come from, then?” Anne asks. She’s leaned her gun against the rock she’s sat on and she invites Flowers to sit on her opposite side.

“I like flowers,” says Flowers. “Introduced to a Rose and a Daisy, I accidentally named myself.” She rolls her eyes. “I could credit him for assigning it as a name, but it was out of my mouth first.”

“You ever seen them?” Anne asks.

“I had a book,” Flowers sighs wistfully. “I was hoping I’d finally see them for true, but..” She shrugs, not wanting to offend or make it sound accusatory. There’s no point in that.

“Alisha!” Anne calls suddenly.

The redhead scurries over, flushed and grinning. “What’s going on?” she asks.

“Get the valise, would you?” Anne asks in reply.

Alisha nods and bolts off, returning soon after with a small case, leather with a worn, rusted metal closing. “Seeds,” she says brightly. “We saved ‘em from home.”

“I try to plant one wherever we go,” Anne explains.

“Why?” Flowers asks. “Does it do anything?”

“Maybe,” Anne says. “Never seen it do, but it’s got a chance, maybe.”

Flowers nods. “It’s a nice thought, anyway.”

“We hold onto what we can,” Anne declares.

 

* * *

 

“Are you feeling all right?” Jiaying murmurs.

Daisy looks up, surprised. She’s been stargazing, not with any real aim because she doesn’t actually know constellations (she remembers Jemma mentioning a dipper, somewhere, but she’s not even quite sure what a dipper is), and waiting for a sign she should do otherwise. This seems to count.

“I’m fine,” she says, raising an eyebrow. “Still bleeding, probably, but fine.”

“It was very brave, what you did,” Jiaying ventures. “Protecting Melinda, protecting the others.”

Daisy shrugs, uncomfortable with the compliment. “I could do it, so I did,” she says. “Any of us would’ve done the same.”

“Even still,” Jiaying says. “May I join?”

A tingle runs up Daisy’s spine, for reasons she doesn’t really understand. “Yeah,” she says. “I’m just…” She shrugs and glances around for an excuse; Jemma is a ways off, deep in conversation with Violet, but that could end any moment. “I know Jemma doesn’t feel well, I guess I’m waiting for if she…”

“You care about her,” Jiaying suggests, feeling rather at a loss for eloquent words.

“I do,” Daisy agrees. “I don’t know if I’d be here without her, even not considering what happened earlier.”

Jiaying nods, frowning thoughtfully. “She must be very clever,” she muses.

“Oh, she is,” Daisy says eagerly. “Clever, and kind, and skilled… I could never do what she does.”

“I’m sure you’re clever, too,” Jiaying replies. “And you have your own gift, you… Melinda said you…” She trails off, knowing it will seem an abrupt change of subject. “She said you have a tattoo?”

Daisy startles, but she flips her arm over instinctively. “Had it since I was little,” she says. “Dunno how it… I mean, I guess it would have been someone who cared about me who put it there?” She shakes her head. “I don’t really think about it much anymore.”

“Someone,” Jiaying echoes. “Family? Do you remember them?” There’s a hollowness to her voice that comes as a complete mystery.

“No,” Daisy says. “It’s not like any of us do, though, at the Citadel. Not really. No one I’ve known.”

Jiaying takes a deep breath. “But you’ve all said it wasn’t uncommon for those in charge to… disturb someone’s memories,” she says.

“No,” Daisy repeats. “Jemma doesn’t have anything before she had her surgery, and Kara’s been manipulated in that way by every man she’s known before yesterday. I guess I could be missing something and not even know it.” She turns to study Jiaying. “What are you getting at?” She, in turn, sounds more than a little nervous, for those similar unknown reasons.

“It must have been summertime,” Jiaying says softly. “What used to be summertime, anyway. The sun was staying out longer, it hadn’t been truly cold in days.”

Daisy frowns. “What must have been?” she whispers.

“My water broke while I was helping with supper,” Jiaying continues, like Daisy hadn’t even spoken. “Anne was the closest we had to a midwife then, and as soon as she was able we started…” She trails off, smiling even through the tears starting to well in her eyes. “You were born by nightfall, and I’d never been more exhausted but I’d also never been happier.”

Daisy lets out a sob and a gasp at the same time, shocked. “You’re…”

Jiaying nods. “We were naming our daughters for the plants we’d lost,” she explains. “The drought hadn’t yet come, but plants by themselves would stop growing sometimes. Lavender and juniper and acacia and iris. One day, I thought, I’d give you a second name, too, set it down by the first, but I lost that chance.”

“What do you mean, a second name?” Daisy asks.

Jiaying flips her own wrist over. “Birthmarks, I called them,” she explains. “A way to spot each other if we got split off. This one, here, where you have a flower, mine is my name written over in Chinese. That’s where my, our family came from, China. Melinda’s people, too. She’s Melinda Qiaolian, and her birthmark showed the first name written out here -” she traces fingers over the corresponding place on her own arm- “and the second here. We drew the lost plants on those children, but I thought you should have a traditional name too, thought we’d figure one out someday.”

“Is Melinda related to us too?” Daisy exclaims, still hung up on that.

“No,” Jiaying says, laughing though tiredly. “Not by blood. Our families simply came from the same place, but lots did, once. Besides, she and hers weren’t angel-children.”

“What do you mean by that?” Daisy asks, though she feels she’s like to get overwhelmed with all this information.

“Have you ever wondered where your gift came from?”

“How I shake things?” Daisy asks. “I must have, but…” She shrugs. “There wasn’t anyone to tell me, so.”

“There’s a great deal more to tell than just this,” Jiaying admits, “but the easiest explanation is that such powers are in our biology, our genetics, because of long-ago things that happened.”

“Like hair color or height,” Daisy says, proud she understands. “What can you do?”

“Did you know I’m Melinda’s same age?” Jiaying asks, trying to smile playfully.

“No!” Daisy exclaims. “I can’t believe. You grew up with her, then?”

“We were the best of friends,” Jiaying nods.

“Did she know about me?” Daisy asks in a rush.

“She didn’t,” Jiaying says. “I got pregnant after she disappeared. I’d always considered it, and I was so lonely after…”

Daisy scoots a bit closer. “Who was he?” she asks. “My father.”

“A lost soul,” Jiaying sighs. “That’s what I thought, anyway. He seemed decent enough to lay with for a night, and I didn’t object when it turned out I was pregnant.”

“Then?”

“You were very young when he came back,” Jiaying says. “He’d been part of a scouting trip into the Waste, the old Immortan and his men looking for… resources.” It’s clear she doesn’t just man water and food. “They called him Hyde: he was one of the Warboys, and when he returned he was no longer gentle, but breathtakingly high, crimson with rage.”

Daisy reaches for Jiaying’s - her _mother’s_ \- hand. “I’m sorry.”

“At first they were attacking, simple,” Jiaying continues. “Most of ours were fighting back, but as a new mother I was with those who needed protected, the children and elderly. He found us, though, and when he saw you, saw you were old enough to be his…”

“He took me,” Daisy finishes.

“He took you,” Jiaying agrees. “I tried to fight him off and I got…” She pulls down the collar of her tunic, revealing a thick, jagged scar across her throat. “He knew I was gifted, but he didn’t know - _I_ didn’t know - that I could heal from what should have been a fatal injury. By the time I regained consciousness, the Warboys were gone and you with them.”

Daisy swallows. “It makes sense,” she says. “I don’t have memories of him, just of running around the Citadel unchecked. I guess I must’ve slipped him when I was little.”

“He must be dead,” Jiaying says, “if he let you vanish. You would have been an asset, potentially, since you carried a gift in you as well, and he’d have got killed over losing you.”

“Funny joke, though, I got found eventually anyway,” Daisy mutters.

“But that brought you here,” Jiaying whispers. ‘It may not make up for anything -”

“If I hadn’t been through that hell, I wouldn’t have my girls,” Daisy says. “And if I hadn’t done that, we wouldn’t have escaped so I could meet you. That’s important, too.”

 

* * *

 

“Is Melinda okay?” Turbo asks the stranger. He’s sitting up in the nest on back of the Rig, guarding the group, and Turbo feels more comfortable with the Rig than with the new women.

“She’s gonna be,” the stranger says.

“Her friends are taking care of her, I think?” Turbo offers.

“Jiaying is more than her friend,” the stranger points out.

“Is Jiaying her sister?” Turbo asks.

“I really don’t think so,” the stranger replies, seeming amused.

“Then what?” Turbo asks. He nods to the spot beside the stranger, the flattened cushion, and the stranger nods for him to sit. This, too, feels comfortable.

“It’s just a theory,” the stranger says.

 

* * *

 

“So what were you out there?” Akela asks. “Before the scum decided you belong to him.”

“I belonged to other scum,” Kara says. “Whitehall, the leader at Gas Town. One of his enemies messed up my face, and then he sold me off.”

“ _Pinche pendejo_ ,” Elena mutters. “All of them.”

“He made me do things, but not like the Immortan did,” Kara continues, leaning against the Mockingbird and sighing. “When I was the leader’s girl, I had guns. I must have killed people for him. I don’t remember anymore.”

“All these men,” the Mockingbird hisses in explanation. “All these warlords, they can’t be content just owning a body, they have to try and own minds too.” She spits, which sort of surprises Akela and Elena but not in a bad way.

“I hurt people for Whitehall,” Kara sighs, “and I got hurt by the Immortan. I don’t remember the one, but I’ll never forget the other. I’d kill them both if I had a chance.”

The Mockingbird frowns, then. “I used to be part of his worshipful throng,” she offers, changing the subject. “Then I ran off, had a few adventures, made myself a bit known, got culled for the trouble.”

“ _Él puede ir al infierno_ ,” Elena sniffs. “Thinking the whole world is theirs to lay claim to.”

“Both of us were challenges, you see,” the Mockingbird continues. “I was the filly that needed broken.”

“And I was the blank slate to write on,” Kara adds, grimacing angrily. “He tried to make me _love him_.”

“ _Él es un cabrón corrupta_ ,” Elena mutters.

“I don’t like men like that,” Kara says. “I wouldn’t have, anyway, but he ruined them for me.”

“Why would they make you forget?” Akela asks softly.

“Not like they ever told me for sure,” Kara shrugs, “but I think…”

“If she remembered how to kill, she’d know how to kill her new husband,” the Mockingbird chimes in. “Not a good business deal, that. They’d have seen it as such.”

“Besides,” Kara smirks, “he already had you to worry about. Birdie fights back,” she tells the others, grinning proudly.

“Ooh, a story?” Elena grins, because she can tell it wants to be told.

The Mockingbird shrugs. “I tried to beat him to death once, that’s all,” she says. "He started changing his tune with Kara once Daisy was knocked up, and I couldn’t stand the thought of it.” She shakes her head. “Must’ve been out of practice, I got a few good hits in but he broke my knee and came for her anyway.” She squeezes Kara’s hand, staring at her mournful-eyed.

“But you tried,” Kara murmurs. “It was more than anyone else had ever done for me, so much more.”

Akela and Elena both smile. “Sometimes the gesture is the important part,” Akela declares.

“What about the two of you?” the Mockingbird asks, because she’s tired of dwelling on her own misery and because she’s genuinely curious. “You grew up in the Green Place?”

“ _Sí_ ,” Elena says. “She was born there, and I came with my mother when I was very small.” She pauses to repeat that gesture they all do, a fist clutched to their chest in remembrance of the dead, and Kara and the Mockingbird know not to press it. “We had heard it would be a safe place for us.”

“Because they took women in?” Kara asks.

Elena nods. “Especially _los niños de ángel_ ,” she explains. “Those of us with gifts, whose ancestors had first been given them by beings from the sky. Angels, maybe. So the stories say.”

“Like Daisy’s shaking and Flowers’ sight,” Kara exclaims. “Are they - are they _los niños_ -”

“Angel-children,” Akela cuts in, smiling to show it’s meant gently. “If they’re gifted, they are. Not all of them lived in the Green Place, after all.”

“Are you?” Kara asks. “One of them.”

“Not me,” Akela says, shaking her head. “I’m just the one-eyed girl with a rifle. Not everyone in the Green Place had gifts, but it was a place where those who did could go and be safe from exploitation.”

“What about you?” the Mockingbird asks, nodding to Elena.

“My mother could bring the wind. And I...” Elena stands, dusting herself off and grinning. “Watch,” she says, and a blanket wraps around their shoulders.

“You can move things with your mind?” Kara guesses.

“Not really,” Elena says. “I can go very fast, running and doing things, so long as I return to where I started when I’m done.” She turns her arm over to show them her tattoo. “ _Mamá_ called me Yo-Yo, sometimes. There were toys, little wood spools on strings, that came out and back in again. Like what I do.”

The Mockingbird blinks. “Where did you get that?” she asks.

“The birthmark?” Elena echoes. “Jiaying did it when I was young, when I had only just come into my gift. We all had them.” Akela flips her wrist up as well, demonstrating.

The Mockingbird and Kara look at each other, then out on the dune where Jiaying and Daisy are sitting, deep in conversation. “You don’t think,” Kara whispers.

“It could be,” the Mockingbird murmurs.

“What?” Elena and Akela ask.

“Our Daisy,” Kara says. “Our Daisy with the gift. She’s got a tattoo just like that, except with her own name.”

“So she’s our Daisy too, after all,” Elena exclaims.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _pinche pendejo_ ; "fuckin' asshole"  
>  _él puede ir ir al infierno_ ; "he can go to hell"  
>  _él es un cabrón corrupta_ ; "he is a corrupt dumbass"  
>  _los niños de ángel_ ; "angel children"


	20. I need the dark to see the light, see the light

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Conversations are held among the small groups of women, looking at where they are and where they might go.

Peg and Angel are the first of them to turn in for the night, which isn’t really a surprise; there are a few tents pitched, and those two disappear into the nearest one with drowsy smiles. Violet and Dot follow them soon after, walking close together (“so there is something there,” the Mockingbird whispers to Kara, grinning triumphantly) and Victoria and Isabelle, after the latter nearly passes out on the former’s shoulder, head for their spot too.

The others, in various states of disarray, come back together after that, to make a few quick decisions. (Or all the women, anyway, as Turbo and the stranger seem to have passed out on each other in the Rig’s roost.) Melinda is still shaky, though better than she was, so Jiaying after a glance of curiosity at Daisy offers to share sleeping space with her.

“Just like old times!” Alisha chirps, trying to be positive.

Akela and Elena (who also seem closer than they might have initially wanted to say) persuade Alisha to squeeze in with them, and Anne to join Jiaying and Melinda, that the new girls might have a tent all their own. Camilla volunteers to sleep under the stars on watch (she has no great fondness for the sentimental conversations that she knows will be held tonight).

Tentatively, then, they all retreat.

 

* * *

 

“They seem nice,” Alisha murmurs, turning on her side to regard Akela and Elena curiously. She hasn’t shared space with them in a while, and not since they got intimate, so it’s interesting to her to see how they are. Akela’s patch is strewn on top of their extra clothes, but (she would have guessed it differently) her dead-eyed side is facing Elena, not turned away. In fact she’s tucked into Elena’s side closely, Elena’s arm around her shoulders.

“They seem more complicated than nice can explain,” Elena corrects, smirking. “They’ve been hurt in ways we’ll never understand, probably. But they have survived.”

Akela nods. “If Melinda likes them and trusts them, then I do too,” she declares.

“Think they’ll be okay out here?” Alisha asks.

“I hope so,” Akela says.

 

* * *

 

“Are you feeling better?” Anne asks. She and Jiaying are on either side of Melinda, though Jiaying is positioned much more personally.

“It’s sunk in,” Melinda mumbles into Jiaying’s chest. “Mostly.”

“If there had been any chance of salvaging the land, any at all, we would have stayed,” Anne adds. “There simply wasn’t.”

“I don’t doubt that,” Melinda says.

“I blame myself,” Jiaying says suddenly.

Anne rolls her eyes, though she’s smiling. “You know how she is, taking responsibility for everything.”

“No,” Jiaying murmurs insistently, “it’s - when you were gone, Qiaolian, and I bedded that man who turned out to be a Warboy, he who gave me…”

Anne reaches over Melinda to lay a comforting hand on Jiaying’s shoulder; Melinda frowns, distressed.

“When they came back for us, when they were fighting,” Jiaying continues, slowly like she’s piecing it together, “he was able to lead the Warboys to us because of me. What does Camilla always say it’s like someone set it off?”

“Oh, Jiaying,” Anne murmurs.

“Perhaps he, they, perhaps we refused to give in, so they lay waste,” Jiaying whispers. “Maybe even while I was dead and you were all distracted.”

“The droughts didn’t come for ages after that,” Anne counters.

“No seed sprouts overnight,” Jiaying mutters. “I should have known better. I should have kept us more a secret, or fought back harder. I should have killed him before I let him take my home and my Daisy.”

“Nobody expected you to deliver us from pain by yourself,” Anne says firmly. “You don’t even know this is truly what happened. And Melinda brought your Daisy back unbidden, so it’s not all hopeless.”

“But it didn’t have to be so _bad_ ,” Jiaying frets. “I should have…”

“It’s not just on you,” Melinda whispers. “I could have shot them all, every single one. I could have escaped so much sooner. Before they took pieces of me and -”

“Both of you, stop,” Anne says. “The terrible things that have happened to you, to any of us, are not your fault. All we can do now is be glad of what we have left and take stock of what we might do next.”

“I’m sorry,” Jiaying murmurs. “Everything has just… aligned. I just wish you could have brought the girls to a real true place of life.”

“I wish that too,” Melinda sighs, “but Anne is right as always. All we can do now is look forward.”

 

* * *

 

“They’re fighters,” Dot murmurs contemplatively, carding a hand through Violet’s fine hair.

“They’ve had to be,” Violet amends. “This world does that.”

“What were you and little English talkin’ about all night?” Angel asks Violet from across the tent.

“Jemma,” Violet says, rolling her eyes fondly though it’s not as if Angel can see that. “She’s a bright girl. Actually knows a fair bit about medicine, between what Rose could pass on and what she could glean from the books they had in there.”

“Oh, that’s good!” Angel exclaims. “You gonna complete her education?”

“I’ll do my best, in time,” Violet says. “She’s got her own personal worries first. That swine put a child in her, too.”

Peg sneers. “She’s not far along,” she observes. “Are you going to help her fix it?”

“She doesn’t want to try till we know Daisy is in the clear,” Violet says, “one thing at a time, but yes. She’s so worried about Daisy, it’s sweet.”

“They’re all quite bonded,” Peg says.

“How astute of you,” Dot snarks. “They’re practically one entity. I don’t think Kara left her Mockingbird’s side all night.”

“After what they’ve been through it’s reasonable,” Angel exclaims. “They must have been the only things keeping each other from going mad.”

“They and Rose,” Peg sighs, pulling Angel closer. “Poor brave Rose.”

“She’s okay,” Violet says. “She’s gotta be.”

 

* * *

 

“Did you know?” Melinda asks, fingers tracing circles on Jiaying’s bare collarbone. “That Daisy was…”

“I wanted to right away,” Jiaying says. “Before you said her name it was a fantasy. Wouldn’t that be something? This girl who… turning out to be… Then you mentioned her name, and surely there aren’t that many Daisys left in the world. Her gift made me almost positive, but the birthmark…” She trails off. “What else could I think? She was born a miracle and she still is, it seems.”

“I’m glad I could return her to you,” Melinda says. “That maybe there was some purpose to this.”

“Oh, Qiaolian,” Jiaying sighs. “My Melinda. That you brought my Daisy is spectacular, but she isn’t the only miracle that’s happened today.” She pauses to press lips to Melinda’s cheek. “I thought I would never see you again.”

This seems to knock the wind out of Melinda, and she hesitates enough that Anne (turned on her side, trying to give them a bit of space) says, “It’s true. We had no way of knowing what had happened to you. If you’d been hurt, taken, killed. The odds that you were still alive and would return to us…”

“I could never have dreamed we’d be so lucky,” Jiaying says.

Melinda sniffles, too tired to care anymore, too tired to keep her eyes dry. “I couldn’t imagine that I’d be free of that place,” she admits. “I didn’t think I deserved to be. Thought surely there came a point where I’d done enough terrible things that I couldn’t excuse it anymore. That saying I just wanted to survive wouldn’t hold up and I’d run out of forgiveness. I didn’t deserve a home, or people’s care, or anything to hope for. It was only bad luck I hadn’t been killed already, or maybe living was a better punishment than dying.”

“But then…”

“They were without hope, too, but there was no excuse,” Melinda says flatly. “Maybe I didn’t deserve it anymore, but they’d suffered so much, and for what, to please the men I’d let trap me?”

“Oh, Melinda,” Anne whispers.

“They suggested I get them out,” Melinda continues. “At first it seemed like just a dream. I pitied them, but I couldn’t imagine… after he put that thing in Daisy and about killed Birdie, though, I thought that maybe it wouldn’t be so bad just to try. To help them out and maybe - if I was lucky - get back some of what I’d lost. Not because I was owed it, but because they were.”

‘You deserve everything good,” Jiaying swears. “No matter what. You may have done awful things, but they weren’t _you_.”

“How do you know that?” Melinda chokes out.

“We know you,” Anne says.

“The woman you really are,” Jiaying adds. “Who you are in your soul. The woman who defied all odds because it was good to do. The woman who saves lives.”

“I didn’t know I’d be able to,” Melinda sobs. “I just - for the first time in so long, I _hoped_.”

“You were so brave,” Jiaying whispers soothingly. “You’re here now and you’re safe here.”

 

* * *

 

“You think we’ll stay here?” Isabelle asks, thoughtfully stroking Victoria’s hair. “Now the party’s got so much bigger and all.”

“I’d leave that to Peg and Jiaying,” Victoria says. “Not like we’d have turned the new girls away.”

“Never suggested it,” Isabelle says. “They’re women in need like all of us have been. But Afterlife can barely support those of us here already.”

“Yeah,” Victoria sighs, pressing her lips together. “You think there’s somewhere else?”

“There’s gotta be,” Isabelle shrugs. “No way this whole planet’s nothing but sand and dirt.”

“You think we could _find_ those places?” Victoria presses. “And not just in one of your ‘why the fuck not?’ ways of thinking.”

“I’m not sure,” Isabelle admits. “You’re saying you wouldn’t be willing to take that adventure with me?”

“I’ll always take adventures with you,” Victoria hums.

 

* * *

 

“ _Àirén_?”

“ _Bǎobèi_?”

“Do you still have your tattooing things?” Melinda asks.

“I should,” Jiaying says. “I’ll have to ask Anne, she keeps all of the old things like that.”

“Would you ask?” Since by now, Anne is asleep.

“Of course,” Jiaying says. “Why?”

Timidly Melinda waves her stump. “My birthmark is gone,” she says. “I imagine they liked taking it away.”

“Do you want to talk about it?” Jiaying asks.

“Not yet, not really,” Melinda sighs. “But I would feel better, knowing you’d replace it. Put it on my back, maybe, where if I ever lost it I’d be _lost_ anyway.”

“Nothing like that will happen to you again,” Jiaying vows, gently closing her hand over Melinda’s lack thereof.

“You can’t promise that,” Melinda says, sounding more tired than truly sad. “Terrible things happen all the time.”

“But we’re here for you,” Jiaying presses. “I’m here for you.”

Melinda takes a deep breath. “Even not knowing everything I’ve done?” she asks.

“Even,” Jiaying agrees. “It’s clear the girls love you. I can see the admiration in their eyes. And you know I’ve always loved you, no matter what.”

“I still feel I’ve let you down,” Melinda says.

“Don’t,” Jiaying replies. “I was never angry, Qiaolian. Not at you. I just wanted you back.”

 

* * *

 

Alisha, Anne, and Camilla’s tent is spacious enough, and the girls take their time getting comfortable, finding ways to nestle together with the blankets and pillows they’ve borrowed. Been given.

Finally, Flowers curled into Daisy pressing against Jemma twined together with Kara strewn across the Mockingbird, they settle in, and Kara asks, “What were you and Jiaying discussing, Daisy? It seemed serious.”

“It was,” Flowers hums, but it’s not hers to tell.

“My tattoo, to start,” Daisy says. “You know the tattoo I’ve always had, with my name? It means I was born in the Green Place.”

The Mockingbird nods. “We saw Elena’s,” she says. “Yo-Yo’s.”

“They’ve all got them,” Daisy agrees. “Melinda, too, though I guess hers got… lost.” They all know what that means. “But that isn’t all. Jiaying, she told me, she said she’s my _mother_.”

All of them (but Flowers) gasp. “Really?” Jemma exclaims. “Oh, Daisy, that’s wonderful!”

“I guess after Melinda… left, Jiaying bedded a man, but he turned out to be a Warboy,” Daisy explains. “He came back later with some of his to try to steal all of them but he was in the end content with stealing me.”

“Daisy, darling,” Kara murmurs sympathetically.

“Maybe he mind-wiped me or maybe I was just too young to remember, but the best we can figure out is I ran off from whatever psycho nursery he brought me to,” Daisy continues. “By the time the assholes found me, they must’ve forgotten their errant, doubtless dead cohort’s magical daughter.”

Flowers shrugs. “Whatever the case,” she says. “But you’ve figured it out, you’ve come back home.” She sounds wistful.

“You’re the only one of us with real family,” the Mockingbird says, clearly impressed.

“I don’t think that’s true,” Daisy says. “We’ve all got each other.”

Jemma squeezes Daisy’s hand. “We do,” she agrees.

“What are we?” Kara asks. “To each other?”

“What do you mean?” Daisy asks, laughing gently. “We’re each other’s.”

“Each other’s what?” Kara presses. “He called us his Wives, but we’re not his. Are we still Wives?”

The Mockingbird frowns. “I don’t know if I like that word,” she says.

“It might be the best one?” Jemma muses. “They used to say sister-wives sometimes, about women who were all beholden to the same man, but we’re certainly more wives than sisters now.”

“Sister-wives only relates us in terms of him,” the Mockingbird sniffs. “Least wives could just be us.”

“Partners?” Daisy suggests. “That sounds more two at a time, though.”

“I was telling Birdie we’re each other’s girls, but that’s funny too, since we’re more women than girls,” Kara says.

“And being each other’s women sounds wrong,” Flowers huffs.

“Too abrupt,” the Mockingbird agrees.

“We’re not consorts,” Jemma says, clearly sorting through all of the appropriate vocabulary she’s collected, “that implies being _had_ by royalty. We’re… girlfriends used to be said?”

“Girlfriends sounds flighty,” Flowers declares. “Like it’s a temporary state.”

“Spouses isn’t pretty,” Kara says.

“We’re well past fiancées,” Jemma frets.

“We could invent something,” Daisy suggests, but she doesn’t seem to have any suggestions.

“I think we could say wives,” Jemma hesitates. “But not _Wives_ , do you understand?”

“It’s not a title,” Daisy says.

“It’s not all we are,” Flowers adds.

“Would that be all right, Birdie?” Kara asks, since she’s been the most hesitant.

“With a little w and not a big,” the Mockingbird says. “I suppose if I’m to be a wife, I’d rather be all yours.”

“It’s different because it’s all of us,” Flowers says. “You know it used to be two people only, when it meant something with the law. My grandmother, when I was young I remember her telling me that a long time ago it could even only be one man and one woman.”

“Like how that’s the only sort of books we had,” Jemma agrees. “I used to think it bad to be... because he didn’t give us any examples. I think if there were laws anymore, the Immortan and his would try to make one about this again.”

The Mockingbird sighs and pulls Kara closer. “We never have to speak to him again,” she says. “Let’s just be content to be each other’s wives without worrying.”

“I like that idea,” Kara says. “Not worrying. Not caring what anyone else thinks. That sounds nice.”

“It is,” Flowers says, because she’s actually experienced that. “Just living for yourself. It will feel nice to do that again after all this time.”

“Do you think we'll stay here?” Jemma asks. “Violet said, she said they’ve been here for a while, but they’re not tied to it, exactly.”

“Anne said the same,” Flowers agrees. “ _Láishì_ is a way station, someplace they’ve set up but don’t feel much for. Still, it’s the best they’ve found since…”

“Jiaying said they’ve considered looking more but they don’t know if it would be worth it,” Daisy sighs.

“The choice between dying languishing or dying searching,” the Mockingbird says. “Didn’t we just face that?”

“The Citadel wasn’t languishing, it was torture too,” Daisy reminds. “Just different.”

“I know that,” the Mockingbird retorts. “But it’s still the same. Die in the hurt we know or die wading through more hurt, maybe.”

“I would rather look forever than give up,” Kara says softly. “But I’d rather stay with my wives and our new friends, and that’s more important.”

“It’s not much here, but I think we could be happy,” Daisy suggests, though she doesn’t sound entirely convince. “We’re together, and we’re not under direct threat.”

“I hope you’re right,” says the Mockingbird, who feels she has to be the voice of cold, or at least cool, reason.

“We’ll be alright,” Flowers says. Almost shyly, she presses a kiss to Daisy’s shoulder, meaning no more than reassurance, but Daisy shifts to tug Flowers closer, smiling faintly, and she returns the kiss.

“Me, too,” Jemma says, rolling on her side to kiss Daisy’s face.

“Let’s all play,” Kara suggests, soft and mischievous.

“Let’s,” Flowers agrees. “I think… we should be very sweet to our Daisy, who’s been through so much these last days, good and bad.”

“We should be careful,” Jemma frets, nuzzling Daisy protectively.

“We’ll be the carefullest,” the Mockingbird promises.

“She does deserve it,” Jemma adds.

“Thank you,” Daisy hums, and they all descend on her with kisses and love.


	21. and it’s not a game when you know that your chances are slim for winning, you’re winning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the morning, the group looks forward, and without even meaning to they start to consider a revolution.

They sleep through the morning and nobody says anything bad about it at all. “They deserve rest,” Peg declares, looking fondly at their tent.

Even better is the fact that Melinda sleeps so late, wrapped up in Jiaying’s arms. Anne sneaks out of the tent with a smile, reporting as much, and the others smile too.

Finally the wives pile out of their tent, all a bit disheveled. “Where’s Melinda?” Kara asks, glancing around.

“And Jia - my mo - where’s Jiaying?” Daisy adds, stammering.

“Slept even later than you,” Anne says, still grinning.

The girls all look at each other, trying to decide something, and finally Daisy chances to ask, “Are Melinda and Jiaying… what are they? Together?”

All of the daughters of the Many Mothers exchange glances then, amused. “They’re close,” Camilla says with a coy little twist of her lips.

“I don’t know what they are now,” Alisha adds, “but they _used_ to be lovers.” She giggles. “I was so jealous.”

Daisy blinks. This shouldn’t come as a surprise, but somehow it does. Melinda the hero she’s watched and followed, Jiaying the mother she just discovered - tangled together. It seems almost too much to be true.

Sensing that awe and apprehension, Flowers clears her throat and asks, “Does anyone have a knife? I need to cut my hair. Or have someone else do.”

“Need, eh?” Dot asks.

Flowers nods. “Now I’m having my visions again,” she explains, “I like keeping it short for safety.”

“Safety?” asks Victoria, who’s always kept her hair long almost out of spite.

“Sometimes they come in my sleep, like dreams,” Flowers explains. “Sometimes it’s more like a seizure, it comes over me suddenly.” She says this bluntly, without embarrassment.

“You’re afraid something would befall you,” says Violet. “An accident of some kind.”

Flowers nods. “Fire or something.”

‘You know we’d protect you,” Kara says earnestly. “Keep you safe.”

It hadn’t actually occurred to Flowers (not everything does) but now that Kara says it, it seems obvious. Still she feels the urge, though. So she smiles and reaches for Kara’s hand, saying, “Then consider it a metaphor. Or just, I want it gone because I _can_.”

After all, the Immortan preferred longer hair (the more feminine and lovely, he said; the easier to tug them around by, they knew). They had supervised trims, sometimes, the responsibility falling to the Organic Mechanic (“it makes him like a medieval barber,” Miss Rose had said, not without some disgust) who’d come with shears and an extra guard to make sure they didn’t steal those same implements, and Flowers’ hair is still the shortest, coming just to her shoulders, but she wants a change.

“I’ll do it,” says Isabelle, whose hair is in what Miss Rose once told them was called a bob, and expertly she takes a knife from her belt and twirls it in her hand.

“Me too,” Daisy says softly. “I mean, I want it cut.” Her own hair is long, sometimes glinting golden like she’s been kissed by sun although she’s rarely seen it before now, but she wrinkles her nose at it now.

“You sure?” asks Jemma (whose own hair comes below her shoulders, dark against her freckled skin).

“Yeah,” Daisy nods. “Lighten my load that much more. Why, don’t you think I’d be cute?”

“‘The cutest,” Jemma exclaims, as if she’s terrified Daisy might think her opinion was any different. ‘I just want you to do something you’d…”

“Regret,” Daisy supplies, laughing. “It’s not a worry, Jem.”

“Besides,” says Camilla, tossing her head, “hair grows back.”

So they start readying for it. Kara and the Mockingbird (who both wear their hair long down their backs and can’t imagine changing it) help Elena and Alisha start the morning meal, Violet enlists Dot to help her show Jemma how to properly cauterize a wound (in the most hypothetical sense), Victoria helps Isabelle set up a proper haircutting station while Angel explains to Daisy and Flowers about old-world salons, Anne and Peg and Akela and Camilla conference about their prospects in this place.

 

* * *

 

“It was wonderful,” Angel sighs dreamily. “This kinda girlie haven where you could go to get pampered an’ just _exist_ around other ladies without worry.”

“She might be romanticizing,” Isabelle calls over her shoulder, smirking. “Most of the time I wound up at one it was just in and out with no conversation or camaraderie involved.”

“Then you were visiting the wrong salons,” Angel scoffs. “The best ones were all that stuff. Women helpin’ women get glamorous or put-together or just happy, no boys allowed.”

“Except the ones on the so-called ‘other team,’” Victoria interjects.

“What team?” Daisy asks, frowning. “How is this a game?”

“It’s a coy euphemism,” Victoria. “It means they weren’t interested in women, sexually.”

“But why is that a team?” Daisy presses.

“Because it’s been men vs. women and heteros vs. homos since time immemorial,” Isabelle says. “What, haven’t you noticed?”

Daisy frowns again, this time mostly at Flowers. “I thought it used to be better,” she mumbles.

“For some years before the end, maybe, it was better,” Angel says. “For a little while. But it took a lot of doin’ to get there from where we’d been for centuries. Didn’t Rose say?”

“Rose was covered in stories,” Flowers says. “I think she knew better than to load us down with only the bad ones, though. We might’ve gotten a slant on things.”

“She _lied_?” Daisy exclaims.

“No,” Flowers says. “But I think she wanted the past to seem more like hope than like something as bad as we were facing. She told us the good stories, those worth keeping.”

“Oh,” says Daisy.

“It wasn’t the shithole it is now, anyway,” Angel shrugs. “But there’s always been evil somewhere.”

“Racism,” Victoria says.

“Sexism,” Isabelle says.

“Homophobia,” Victoria says.

“Ableism,” Isabelle says.

“Just about every bias you could imagine,” Angel summarizes.

“I know men are awful to women,” Daisy says. “And I know some people think it’s wrong when women love other women, Miss Rose told us about that. But…”

“You see how your skin is darker than mine, and Flowers’ is darker than yours?’ Victoria asks. “Someone long ago decided that would be a good reason to subjugate people.”

“Most of the men in power _were_ pale,” Daisy muses. “The Immortan didn’t _say_ anything about it to me, but…”

“He compared me to desserts,” Flowers says, wrinkling her nose. “Some I don’t think even _exist_ anymore.”

“Old nasty trick,” Isabelle agrees. “An’ the other, that’s… see this?” She waves her amputated arm.

“Yeah,” Daisy says.

“Well, people like to make people who’ve got some physical, or mental, disability, they used to say, feel less than,” Isabelle sighs. “Still do, if you meet the wrong people.”

“Like how Kara gets insulted for her face?” Daisy asks.

They all nod. “People can be horrible,” Isabelle says brightly. “Who wants the first haircut?”

“Flowers should go first, it was her idea,” Daisy says.

 

* * *

 

Melinda and Jiaying finally stumble out of bed when the sun is high and all of the others are busy: cutting hair, sharing clothes, gathering supplies, talking strategy, doing repairs (that last is Turbo and the stranger, who seem to have discovered some amiable something between them). “Feels like home,” Jiaying murmurs hopefully, squeezing Melinda’s hand.

“Might do,” Melinda agrees.

“There you are!” Anne calls, waving them over.

“You knew where we were,” Jiaying teases.

“I did, and I’m glad you didn’t rush,” Anne concedes.

“We’ve been discussing resources,’ Peg says. “Figuring how much we have left here, how long it will last us.” She pauses, purses her lips. “Whether it might be better to move on.”

“There’s still plenty of the Waste we haven’t explored,” Camilla says, sounding like she’s been emphasizing this point too much already. “Might as well take off and see.”

“You have enough bikes?” Melinda asks, frowning.

Akela nods. “I think we could make it, if we shared,” she says. “We have enough fuel for a while, and it might be summer.” She smiles, though a bit ironically. “It could be the best time to go.’

“Maybe,” Melinda says, though she sounds doubtful.

“Do you think the girls would be willing?” Peg asks. “So soon after…”

“Maybe not,” Melinda admits. “Not without an endpoint. But I could ask.”

“Ask what?” It’s the stranger, coming over with a wrench in hand and Turbo on his heels.

“If they’re willing to travel more,” Melinda says. “Look for a place that might hold out longer than this one.”

“There’s not such a place!” Turbo exclaims. “Not that’s in drivable range.”

“What about the Citadel?” the stranger asks.

“What about it?” Jiaying counters.

“It’s got food, and water too,” the stranger says. “Isn’t that right?”

“Yes,” Melinda says, lingering on the word like she’s trying to make sense of what he might be saying.

“So there’s your answer,” the stranger says.

“ _What_?” Kara shouts, hurrying over to fix the stranger with a determined glare.

“We can’t go back there,” the Mockingbird adds, following. “You crazy?”

“What’s going on?” Jemma exclaims.

“ _He_ thinks we should just waltz back into the Citadel!” Kara yelps. “Despite it being the place we just _ran_ from to keep ourselves from being _tortured_.”

“Why would we do a foolish thing like that?” Jemma scoffs, because sounding snotty is easier than letting herself get mad (she’d be afraid behind it and she doesn’t want to show any more of that).

“Like what?” asks Daisy, coming over shaking her new shorter hair.

“Going back,” Jemma says. “As if we hadn’t just…”

“We couldn’t do that!” Daisy yelps. “We’d get killed.”

“If we went back?” Flowers asks coolly, carding her hand through _her_ shorter hair. “I want to hear what he has to say before we jump on him.”

“Could you _please_ say it some way that’s not that?” the Mockingbird groans.

“Well, it’s not like I’ve got a _plan_ ,” the stranger says, rolling his eyes. “But it seems like it has everything you need.”

“Not to mention gods know how many kamacrazy soldier boys willing to throw destroy themselves in the pursuit of nabbing us or destroying us,” Daisy sniffs. “If we go back it’s our end.”

“You could let the soldier boys destroy themselves in the pursuit, but never let them reach the end,” Dot suggests. By now all of the women are gathered around, their expressions different shades of perplexed.

“Yeah,” the stranger says, nodding approvingly. “You’re all tougher than those guys, from what I can tell. Their only advantage is not giving a shit if they die.”

Turbo makes an affronted noise, which makes Daisy and Jemma both look at him curiously, which makes him blush. That’s interesting.

“So what is it you’re suggesting?” Anne asks, furrowing her brow.

“Well,” the stranger says, seeming to sort things out as he talks, “you could take the Rig and all your bikes, come back through the same way we came in the first place, and it seems to me like all you’d need to do is take out the Immortan.”

“All we’d need to do to what?” the Mockingbird asks suspiciously.

“To take the Citadel,” the stranger shrugs.

“Take it how?” Jemma asks.

“Take it over.”

All of the women break out murmuring, frowning at each other. There’s not a one of them there who’s ever considered such an aggressive, bold move, considered putting themselves on the line and on the so-to-speak throne, but…

“Wouldn’t there be the other heads of state, so to speak, to contend with?” Peg asks, clearly disdainful.

“I already got Major Aquarius,” the stranger shrugs. “The one with the…” He trails off, vaguely motioning to the general area of his nipples, and everyone who’s seen the man in question nods. “And we could take out the other one, too, I bet.”

“Whitehall,” Kara says flatly, wrapping arms around herself. “He’s, he’s usually well-protected. I think.  If he had… I’d guess he’s vigilant. That might make it difficult to get at him.”

The Mockingbird frowns, moving to hold Kara. “We could do it,” she says.

“You forget you’re working with a world-class assassin here,” Dot calls, smirking. “There are ways. We could get it done. I could, or if you wanted to do it for personal reasons, I could show you how.”

“We’ll worry about that in a minute,” Violet sighs. “Don’t sound so excited.”

Dot actually sticks her tongue out, which seems incongruous in a woman of her age, but it’s clear that Violet finds this charming, so the others do as well.

“And once we had the Citadel,” Jiaying says warily, “where would we go with it?”

“Wherever you wanted, I guess,” the stranger says.

“More equal access to things,” Jemma suggests immediately. “Resources, and work, and learning, and respect. Respect above everything.”

“It could be done,” Flowers agrees. “The water’s not gonna run out, he pumps it outta the ground.”

“And it’s been a while, but I’ve seen the gardens,” Daisy adds. “There’s enough up there for so many more people than he’s using it for right now. And I bet there’s more to plant, too.”

“We’ve got some!” Alisha grins.

“It wouldn’t be easy,” the stranger says, “but I bet you could do it.”

“You’re coming too,” Melinda says with an air of finality.


	22. how can you tell me you don’t want me back? I don’t want you around me at all

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The women begin their journey back to the Citadel.

“Is it really like you say?” Peg asks softly, sounding more hopeful than likely she has since the early days, since before the world ended. “Alive?”

“It is,” Daisy promises. “Rows and rows of crops, too many to count.”

“And water. He pumps it up from deep in the Earth like Flowers said,” Jemma explains. “Calls it Aqua Cola and claims it all for himself.”

“And because he owns it, he owns all of us,” Daisy sniffs.

“I like him even less,” Angel says.

“He won’t see us coming, though,” Daisy supposes. “Not at first. I’m sure he never thought we’d have the nerve to run, and going back like we’re doing is even bolder. He’s very imaginative about ways to hurt people, but…” She winces.

“He’s not prone to thinking outside the box otherwise,” Jemma finishes.

Everyone is armed for battle, spread over the Rig and the smaller vehicles that the others have saved up. In the first ATV Camilla is driving, joined by Flowers (who’ll shout directions) and Dot and Violet; behind them Melinda controls the Rig, joined by Turbo and the stranger and Kara and the Mockingbird; Elena and Akela, Alisha, Anne, Jiaying, and Isabelle and Victoria are on motorbikes around them; Daisy and Jemma and Angel are riding with Peg in the last car.

Every last one of them is afraid, and every one of them is more hopeful than they know is smart.

They cross the desert, cross the Waste; the former daughters of the Green Place make their gesture of remembrance as they pass the patches of dead soil and trees, and the wives look at the spot with renewed curiosity. It’s curiosity like would be applied to a book that they’d just been handed for the first time, curiosity about historical context. It’s something for the other women to see.

And then, all at once, more engines start to roar from all around them.

“They’ve seen us!” Flowers howls out the window of her car.

“No shit!” Alisha shouts back, grinning.

Jemma takes Daisy’s hand just as Angel takes Peg’s.

“Here we go,” Daisy whispers.

“I love you,” Jemma says.

“I love you too,” Daisy says.

“I love you,” Angel says.

“I love you too,” Peg says.

 

* * *

 

“It’s the War Rig! It’s Imperator Melinda’s War Rig!”

“They’re coming back this way!”

“Why?”

“Do they wish to surrender?”

“Are they coming back to their rightful place?”

“Who’s that with them? Wastelander women?”

“Why would they bring back _more_ women?”

“Immortan?”

“Maybe they don’t mean to surrender at all.”

 

* * *

 

“What are you doing?” Camilla asks, glancing beside her to where Flowers is gesturing and muttering, trancelike.

“Praying,” Flowers says plainly, barely pausing.  
“To who?” Camilla asks, sounding somehow shocked by this.

“Anyone that’s listening,” Flowers retorts.

Beside their car, a Warboy on a bike rides up, starts to ram into their front. “Bitches!” he howls. “Think you can take from him what gave you life?”

“He hasn’t given anyone life!” yells Violet. “Just taken it from innocents and pretended it was noble.”

“By his hand we’ll be redeemed!” the Warboy shouts.

“Not bloody likely!” Dot screams.

The Warboy moves in to shoot at their tire, but in the blink of an eye his crossbow vanishes. “What in the hell?”

Behind him, Elena is standing on the back of Akela’s motorbike, grinning cheekily and flaunting the weapon. “ _Está buscando esto?_ ” she calls. Her other hand rests lightly on Akela’s shoulder, for balance and for comfort both, but it’s the only hold she needs. Clearly, she’s done this sort of thing before.

“Whore!” the Warboy shouts, rounding to take them down, but before he can get close Elena fires the bow, lodging a bolt in his chest takes him down and the bike down too. Akela expertly drives around the fallen, speeding up to keep pace with Camilla’s ATV for a moment and giving a good old-fashioned thumbs-up.

Dot returns the gesture, laughing. “Fools. Caught up in their own heads.”

Akela nods. “They don’t want to acknowledge the possibility that their way might not be the best or only way,” she says grimly.

“Another one coming up behind you,” Flowers calls.

Elena rolls her eyes and fires off another bolt, hitting this Warboy in the eye. “ _Gracias_ ,” she mutters. “They’re like cockroaches. There’s always one of them coming back.”

“Cut off one head, two more shall appear,” Flowers murmurs.

“What’s that?” Violet asks.

“Something the Immortan used to say,” Flowers shrugs. “I think he meant it as a metaphor, that there’d always be someone to take up his fight, but it was some old mythological thing, too. He usually only brought it up when he was getting really vicious, though, so I’d usually tune it out.”

Dot nods, as if that makes perfect sense. “Yeah, men like that like having some bullshit story to support their bullshit power grab,” she agrees. “Nasty business.”

“You’d know about that,” Violet says cheerfully.

“I killed men like that for money and principle,” Dot retorts. “It was nothing like their colonialist, post-capitalist hierarchies and nonsense.” This is clearly an old argument.

“They’re like an old married couple,” Camilla explains to Flowers, smirking. “An old married couple with their moral compasses pointing in very different directions.”

“I resemble that,” Dot says in a tone of false accusation, clearly playing around.

“Are any of you married?” Flowers asks.

Camilla shakes her head. “Peg and Angel may as well be, and these two in their way,” she says, “but there isn’t really true marriage out here anymore. Nobody to perform it, no way to make it official. Means you can take things as you like.”

“Huh,” Flowers nods. “Makes sense. We were never truly married to him, but that’s what he called us, wives.”

“ _Cabrón_ ,” Camilla mutters.

“We’re still wives, but we’re not his,” Flowers says, like she’s making the best of it sort of. “We talked about it. If there’s no such thing as true marriage, then we’ll just take what we can get.”

“You’re really all… together?” Dot asks. “I mean, equal-like.”

Flowers shrugs calmly. “Well, it was Jemma and Daisy first, and Kara and Birdie, but now we’re all together. I’m not _so_ much the odd one out anymore.” She says it plain, without regret or worry. Just a fact.

“Huh,” Dot says. “Guess things are different than they used to be, then.”

Violet rolls her eyes, laughing. “You wouldn’t have got in Peg’s bed no matter what,” she says, nudging Dot pointedly. “Peg’s a one-woman woman. You know that.”

Then it’s Dot’s turn to shrug. Whatever response she’s going to come up with is interrupted by something hitting their roof, though it doesn’t linger. Flowers pokes her head out to see what’s going on, and she groans. “Polecats bouncing,” she announces. “Gonna keep trying to step on us till they stick it.”

“Then we’ll just have to outdrive them,” Camilla mutters.

 

* * *

 

“They’re going to get in front of us,” Melinda announces. “Gonna try to spike our wheels, slow us down.”

“Old trick,” Turbo agrees, rather pointlessly.

“We can’t let ‘em,” the Mockingbird shouts. “Outrun the bastards.”

“Easier said than done,” Melinda mutters. “The engines’re good, but they’re not gonna perform miracles.”

“We could nudge ‘em, though,” Turbo suggests.

“Yeah?” Melinda prompts. “You’re a black thumb, right, kid?”

Turbo flinches,presumably at being called ‘kid,’ but he nods. “I know my way around engines pretty good,” he agrees.

“Think you could manage to nudge engine one without taking us all down?” Melinda asks.

“I could try!” Turbo exclaims, clearly awed that she’s asking for his help.

“Go out and try it, then,” Melinda orders. “Take the fool with you, in case you need anything.”

With that, Turbo and the stranger monkey out of the cab, leaving just the women inside, and Melinda sets her jaw. “Think I’m making a mistake?” she asks Kara and the Mockingbird, sounding almost - almost - amused.

“Letting him help, you mean?” Kara asks. “He hasn’t ruined us yet, so that’s something.”

“Jemma and Daisy vouched for him,” the Mockingbird shrugs, “and while I haven’t a clue why they did, I trust their judgment.”

“Guess the worst it could do is kill us,” Melinda mutters, again with that bit of irony.


	23. but every time you take that breath ten thousand other people suffer ‘cause they feel the way I do!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wives, the daughters of the Many Mothers, and all their other associates battle their way closer to the Citadel.

“You traitored him!” shouts a Warboy, riding up beside them. It’s goddamn Hellfire, because of course it is.

“All we did was save our own souls!” Jemma shouts defiantly, sticking her head out the window. “Nothing you’d understand, not having one, but it needed to be done!”

Hellfire makes a face. “You talk too much,” he says, gearing up to swing his flaming chain.

Alisha gives a feral sort of cry, jumping out of nowhere to wrestle that from him. His bike hits the ground and they begin to tussle, apparently oblivious to anything else around them.

“Look out!” Daisy shouts, watching in terror.

Alisha drives up on a bike of her own, grinning and waving a rifle.

“What the hell!” Jemma shrieks.

“Didn’t I tell you?” Alisha calls, shooting Hellfire in the arm. “That’s my gift. I multiply.”

Hellfire, meanwhile, is howling with pain, dropping his chain and the first Alisha all at once. She grabs the chain and runs to tag onto Peg’s car, holding the windowframe with one hand as she passes the makeshift weapon to the girls inside.

“Hold onto this,” Alisha says with a grin.

“Do we do anything with it?” Jemma asks breathlessly.

“Just keep it outta their way,” Alisha says. She turns to fire at another Warboy, then glances back. “Any little advantage, right?”

“Right,” Daisy and Jemma say in unison, and Daisy gives a salute as Alisha climbs up on top of the vehicle to shoot more of their opponents.

“Hold on tight,” Peg calls back. “I’m going to speed up some and check in with the others.”

“Bet you miss your secret spy communicators huh?” Angel teases.

“They would be better than shouting at each other out windows,” Peg agrees, smirking.

But just as soon as they catch up to the others, falling in line with Camilla’s car, the Immortan’s voice booms out ahead of them.

“Do you not mourn?”

The girls shiver, clutching at each other, and in the next car Flowers reaches out to hold them in spirit, too. Are they meant to reply? They never have been before, and anyway how would he hear them?

“My Daisy pure-and-sweet,” he bellows. “Do you not mourn the child you carried for me? Is this not why you return?”

“Double negative?” Daisy whispers.

“He’s trying to fool us into confessing,” Jemma muses.

“I know it must be painful,” he continues. “Losing your greatest treasure. Losing the life that joined ours together. I would gladly give you a second chance.”

This upsets Daisy, but not in the way he expects. Her eyes fill with tears, she folds in on herself, but she does not beg.

“Daisy,” he calls again. “Daisy, if you just confess we can end this.”

Up a ways, in the Rig, Kara clings to her Birdie fearfully. “He’s going to steal us back, he is.”

“No he’s not,” the Mockingbird hisses. “I’d rather die than let him take us again.” She wraps her arms around Kara and holds her tight.

“But what happens if some of us die and others don’t?” Kara whimpers.

“Don’t even say that,” the Mockingbird exclaims. “That won’t happen. It can’t.”

But as if he senses her fear, the Immortan shouts, “My Kara, my beautiful monster. Have you let yourself be swayed? Have you forgotten who you are?”

Kara goes stiff and the Mockingbird strokes her hair. “Don’t listen to him,” she whispers.

“Is there anyone among these fallen women who knows you like I do?” he shouts. “Surely you know that you and I deserve each other.”

Without warning Kara shrieks, loud and shrill and wordless. She slams her hand over her ears and she shouts until his words stop and her ears feel safe again.

 

* * *

 

“What the hell is _that_?” Isabelle mutters, revving the engine of her motorbike and trying not to look behind her for a source.

“Beats me,” Victoria says. There’s a couple Warboys on their tail, so she twists to shoot at them, then twists back to squeeze Isabelle sympathetically. Isabelle hates guns.

“Go to hell!” one of the men shouts as he swerves to miss his cohort (it doesn’t succeed entirely, and they both topple to the ground).

“Already there,” Victoria retorts.

Isabelle barks out a laugh, leaning on her motorbike’s handle. Most of the bikes they’ve all salvaged and kept are shared, but this one is just Isabelle’s, messily and lovingly modified so she can ride it one-handed. “Finish them off,” she suggests, smirking. “I’ll try not to flinch.”

“Got it,” Victoria laughs. She aims for the Warboys’ heads, but before she can pull the trigger, another bullet flies through the air, catches her in the gut, and causes her to lose balance and tip off the bike. This, in turn, causes Isabelle to stop the bike and make to lift Victoria -

\- which gets her shot too.

“Two down,” Ward mutters from his own vehicle.

 

* * *

 

There’s gunfire all around them, but none of it is anything more than part of the cacophony. The Immortan’s absurd motorized soundstage is rolling along beside the fight, spitting flames and working to enhance his murderous trash aesthetic. The boy who plays the main guitar bounces on his suspension wires; baby Warboys pound drums and make whatever noise they can.

It’s a powerful distraction, which must be part of the strategy. The noise and the visual overload of it makes it just that much harder to keep up with what’s happening outside, the circling bikes and roaring cars and frantic firing weapons and all the _shouting_.

He stops after he goes after Kara for a little while anyway, but then without any warning he starts again, and Daisy holds Jemma and the Mockingbird holds Kara and Flowers grips her seat tight.

This time he comes for Jemma.

“Precious,” the Immortan bellows. “Precious Jemma, you know all of this could end right now.”

Jemma sets her jaw.

“If you would only be a good girl,” he shouts. “Do as you know you should and tell these _wild women_ to surrender. If you asked, they would listen to you. You’re very good, my precious.”

Jemma squeaks, and as Daisy squeezes her hand Angel and Peg turn back to look at her, worried.

“I don’t owe him my goodness,” Jemma whispers. “I don’t owe him anything.”

“The sooner you surrender, the fewer of your lives I’ll have to take,” he continues, almost sing-songing the words. “Two of your new friends are already dead and gone. Some of those _dykes on bikes_ you’ve teamed up with.”

Jemma gasps.

“Some mutilated androgyne and her second,” the Immortan continues. “They weren’t adding anything to the world, I’m sure, so _I’m_ not crying over it, but I know women are more sensitive.”

“He killed Victoria and Isabelle,” Jemma mutters. “I’m going to eviscerate him.”

“He’s barricaded in one of those armored monstrosities,” Peg says warily. “I’m not suggesting it couldn’t be done, but…”

“What if we break the armor down?” Daisy asks.

 

* * *

 

“Akela’s bike just got wrecked,” Flowers reports, staring out the window.

“ _¡Mierda!_ ” Camilla exclaims. “That’s two of us.”

“Two of who?” Elena chirps, appearing at the back window with Akela beside her. They must be in the half-a-truckbed.

“What?” Violet exclaims, sounding delighted and shocked all at once.

“Jumping and rolling and playing dead and hoping for our lives,” Akela says with a shrug. Her eyepatch is off-kilter, Elena’s hair is a wreck.

“It helps that none of these cars actually go very fast,” Elena laughs, opening the window.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Flowers says in one of her dark cold prophecy voices. “Victoria and Isabelle were shot.”

“I’ll get them,” Elena promises. She zips off and in the blink of an eye returns with Victoria, bleeding from her abdomen but breathing, in tow.

“Get in here,” Violet demands, nudging Dot to scoot over and make room in the backseat. Akela has already crammed in beside Flowers, and Victoria groans but she follows orders, preparing to let Violet tend her wound.

“Good,” Elena says, and she rushes off again for Isabelle, this time coming to the side door and ushering her in that way.

“What happened to you?” Dot asks, already rummaging in Violet’s medical kit for alcohol and bandages.

“That _fucker_ with his idiot breathing mask,” Victoria sputters. “Lodged a bullet in me, knocked us off - _shit_!” She interrupts herself when Violet applies alcohol to her wound and grits her teeth.

“Hey,” Isabelle murmurs, stroking Victoria’s hair. Her own wound (if the Immortan had bothered to look) is much more superficial, practically just a graze, so she isn’t worrying. “Hey, you’re all right. Hang in there, Toria.”

“I’m trying,” Victoria smirks, but she’s clearly starting to fade.

“You’ll be fine,” Violet says. “Just -”

“Flowers!” the Immortan roars. “Why do you play this way?”

In the front seat, Flowers shivers.

“You don’t need to misbehave like this to get the attention you want,” he continues, laughing with false merriment.

“What does he mean?” Dot asks, sniffing disdainfully.

“He cast me as the happy masochist,” Flowers mutters. “The wild thing to control.”

“Despicable,” Akela mutters.

 

* * *

 

“You’re not like the others,” the Immortan shouts, still speaking to Flowers. “You have a yen for adventure, but hasn’t it gone too far?”

“He’s disgusting,” Kara mutters. She sounds more confident about this than she did, at least.

“He is,” the stranger and Melinda say in unison.

“You’re too rare for this desert, though,” the Immortan continues. “Too exotic. You’re fine cocoa, not cheap whiskey.”

“Terrible,” the Mockingbird hisses.

It’s this that finally elicits a response, though, and they can hear Flowers shriek, “And you’re poison, you sick bastard!”

“Oh no,” Turbo says, glancing around. “The polecats. They’re getting more aggressive, you hear that?” They’re bumping on the tops of vehicles, dragging weapons. “They’re gonna try to get in ours.”

“Get in our what?” Kara exclaims.

“Our cars,” Turbo says. “They’d snatch you out.”

“Fuck,” the Mockingbird mutters. “Shame we don’t have decent windows to roll up.”

“They’d just break them and use the glass to cut you before they took you,” Melinda mutters. “This is even worse than we thought. Polecats dancing like this mean they’re getting really desperate, which means they’re going to get sloppy.”

Just then, Jiaying rides up and shouts, “We need to abandon our bikes. They’re getting too dangerous.”

Melinda nods. “Fool, you willing to climb out and pull them up?”

“Hm.” But the stranger opens the door beside him and waves Jiaying to circle around to his side so he can grab her.

Before she makes it, though, a lancer aims and spears her through the chest. She shrieks, which makes Melinda shriek, which makes Kara shriek, but the stranger just hands his gun back to the Mockingbird and nods resolutely.

“Bird, cover me,” he says before he leaps out of the Rig. There’s no time for it to stop, but he takes the time to pull Jiaying off of her motorbike, snap the top of the spear off to make it easier to get her in the cab, gather her up, and run back for the Rig, faster than anyone could expect.

“Take her,” he shouts at Turbo, barely holding onto the Rig with one hand as he shifts his hold on Jiaying to pass her inside with the other.

Turbo nods, reaches out to take Jiaying and pull her in as safely as he can. His fingers brush the stranger’s and, even with how warm it is, he shivers.

“Easy, easy,” Melinda mutters.

“I’ll be fine,” Jiaying sigh-says. “Really. We just need to get the thing out of me and I’ll heal like always.”

The stranger scoffs, hoisting himself into the Rig. “You got _impaled_ ,” he says.

“I’ll heal,” Jiaying retorts. “It’s what I do. Don’t worry about me, worry about Anne and Alisha. They’re still out there.”

“And the others?” Kara asks, eyes wide.

“You heard him say he got Victoria and Izzy,” Melinda mutters, frowning. “I don’t know if it’s true, but we have to trust they got to the others if it’s not.” There’s no time to circle back, is the sad truth.

“I saw Elena hanging off Camilla’s car, earlier,” Jiaying adds. “Which means if Akela’s still with us, she’s in there too.”

“Small comfort?” Turbo suggests. Nobody pays attention to him.

 

* * *

 

By now, Alisha the first has moved inside Peg’s car, sliding into the seat beside Daisy and shooting Warboys out the open window when the moment strikes. One of her multiples is still weaving in and out of Warboy vehicles, seeming to be having way too much fun, another seems to be set up in the Rig’s roost sniping polecats, and the third delivered Anne to them with a flourish, getting her set up in the front seat beside Angel.

“Do you hear all the you-people’s thoughts?” Jemma asks, because she can’t help herself, it’s fascinating.

Alisha laughs, though not without some hollowness. “When we’re safe, you can ask me anything,” she says, deflecting her worry with flirtation.

Daisy picks up on this and bristles a bit. Of course the others in their sort-of marriage are allowed to flirt with Jemma, but she realizes this must be what Jemma felt all those hundreds of days ago when Melinda first entered their lives. Jealousy. It’s strange.

“You must know a lot of things about our…” Daisy trails off, unsure of the right word.

“Ancestry?” Alisha suggests. “I’ve picked up a fair bit of the lore about us angel-children. Hanging around your mom, it made sense. She’s always been sort of our leader, sort of our historian.”

Daisy nods. Somehow, this makes perfect sense to her. “I bet it’s interesting,” she says.

“Yeah,” Alisha agrees. “Really - _oh, fuck!_ ” And she bursts into tears, folding at the waist and dropping her head into her lap.

“What’s wrong?” Jemma yelps, taken aback by this sudden display.

“My - _me_ ,” Alisha cries helplessly.

“This happens,” Anne explains from the front seat. “Every time one of her doubles gets killed, she feels it.”

“Oh!” Jemma exclaims, horrified and fascinated. “That’s so - I mean, is there anything I can do to help, Alisha?”

Alisha just shakes her head and sniffles.

 

* * *

 

“Mockingbird,” the Immortan calls, sounding the darkest he has yet. “Your rebellion spread, and I’m not sure whether killing you would be better or worse punishment.”

In the Rig, the Mockingbird shudders. “Better,” she mutters, “then I wouldn’t have to put up with him ever again.”

“Don’t talk like that,” says, surprisingly, Jiaying. She’s stretched out over the backseat with her head in Kara’s lap, bleeding profusely but not seeming to weaken. “He’s just a man, talking tough and strong to frighten us all. He could be destroyed like any of us.”

“Not any,” Melinda says, turning to smirk at Jiaying. “But most.”

“And Imperator!” the Immortan shouts. “I see no reason not to end your sorry life. You’re of no use to us anymore. You’ve dashed yourself on the rocks. For what? To rescue some whores?”

“It’s like he thinks only who he’s addressing can hear him,” the Mockingbird mutters. “That his motivation’s still going to work even if he’s setting us against each other.”

“Also just like a man,” Jiaying sighs.

“There they are!” Turbo exclaims, waving at the Immortan’s choice car. He’s standing out the sunroof, bellowing into a megaphone, and Turbo shudders to think that just a day ago he was concerned with this man’s approval.

“He’s just sticking out there like a weed,” Jiaying mutters, rolling her eyes. “Someone ought to pull him and crush him.”

“I’m gonna do it,” Melinda mutters. “Turbo, hold the wheel.”  
“No!” Jiaying and Kara and the Mockingbird all shout as Melinda shoulders her rifle and leans out the window. She points, she takes aim, she pulls the trigger - and just at that moment the Immortan decides to gesticulate in another direction. The bullet catches him in the side, but he doesn’t fall.

“Bitch!” shouts a lancer, promptly shanking her in the side.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _mierda_ ; "shit"


	24. love, loving you has been but war paint, flesh through the colours shine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wives and all the others make their final stand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so much violence incoming y'all.

“Melinda!” Kara and the Mockingbird scream in unison.

“I’m fine,” Melinda hisses through her teeth. “Give me a piece of cloth, Birdie.”

The Mockingbird nods and pushes her hips off the seat so she can rip a piece off the hem of her short skirt. She has proper shorts under, too, so it’s all right (Miss Rose told them once that that used to be called a skort, but they all agreed that sounded too, too silly). “Here,” she murmurs, sounding like she thinks it may not be enough.

“Thanks” Melinda grunts, starting to bandage her wound.

“That won’t last you, Qiaolian,” Jiaying (who looks remarkably healthy for someone who’s still bleeding from the stomach, still impaled) scolds from the backseat. “You need to treat it.”

“I’ll be okay,” Melinda insists. “I’ll get it done.”

 

* * *

 

“If I could just get onto those fuckers’ convoy, I could off them all like _that_ ,” Dot mutters.

“You couldn’t just go through all of them slitting each throat,” Violet snarks. “Not without getting yourself killed. I know it sounds tempting, but you have to be practical.”

“That isn’t a horrible thought, though,” Akela muses, “going at them from the inside.”

“Camilla, _¿es que ella está bien?_ ” Elena asks suddenly, nodding to Flowers. Her eyes are closed and she’s leaning against the door looking as if she having a bad dream

Camilla glances over for just a second, frowning. “Akela, _estás más cerca_ ”

Gently Akela puts a hand on Flowers’ shoulder. “Flowers?” she whispers. “Are you…”

Everyone is silent, waiting for Flowers to open her eyes. It seems to take impossibly long, because of course it does. Finally she blinks almost serene. “So that’s the game,” she murmurs distantly.

“What?” Isabelle asks, frowning and rubbing idly at the bandage around her arm.

“Someone give me a gun,” Flowers says instead of answering.

“What?” Violet exclaims. “Are you going to pick them off through the window?”

“Just give it to me,” Flowers mutters, but when Elena hands her a pistol she tucks it in her makeshift belt. Then she sticks her upper body out of the window, turning to gaze at Peg’s car and then the Rig, to catch Daisy’s eye and then Kara’s.

“What are you doing?” Akela asks.

Flowers doesn’t budge or reply.

“What the _hell_ are you doing?” Victoria asks, surprisingly harsh for someone who’s still out of commission with a bullet wound.

Flowers doesn’t move.

“Shit!” Violet yelps.

The polecats, of course, are bouncing and shooting and grabbing. Everyone can sort of see it coming when one reaches out to grab Flowers, so they can’t figure out why Flowers couldn’t, why she let it happen.

“Don’t worry about me,” Flowers calls back as she’s pulled through the air, still calm as anything.

 

* * *

 

“What is she doing?” Jemma shrieks, beating her hand against the windowsill. “Wouldn’t she have seen that coming?”

Anne frowns. “Would she have?” She tries to affect an intellectual air about this, set herself apart from it. “Does she see everything? She’s just now getting her visions back, isn’t she?”

“She is,” Jemma says doubtfully, “but I… I think she’d certainly have seen _that_! It’s… it’s important. She sees things that are important!”

Alisha makes a face, clutches her stomach. (She’s been doing that since her double got killed; they’ve all figured, correctly, that it must have been the place she felt the wound.) “But she didn’t, she didn’t…”

“I think maybe she did,” Daisy murmurs.

“What?” Alisha exclaims.

“I think maybe she knew she was going to get taken,” Daisy says. “She saw that they’d take her and she…”

“She let them,” Jemma finishes, her eyes watering.

“Why would she do something like that?”

“When we… it was just Daisy and I, at first,” Jemma begins. “Then she arrived. He’d already started coming to us at night, and she’d seen it, that he… did that.”

“Then she saw when he’d come for her,” Daisy adds. “And she said, she said -”

“Every night he was with her is one he wasn’t with us,” Jemma finishes. “She’d have let him hurt her for all time if it kept him from hurting us.”

“She’s going to sacrifice herself for us,” Daisy whispers, awed and more than just a little bit devastated.

“We’ve got to stop her!” Jemma exclaims.

“How?” Anne asks in the voice of someone who’s fought just long enough they feel some things are inevitable. “She’s in the lion’s den.”

“We can’t just leave her,” shouts, surprisingly, Alisha. “I’ll send one of me after her.”

“Thank you,” Jemma says, smiling nervously.

“The others have all seen what happened too, I’m sure,” Peg says. “If there’s some way to slash through those arseholes then I’m sure Dot will suss it out, or your Melinda.”

“Get closer,” Daisy insists, tone steely.

 

* * *

 

“You still continue this charade?” the Immortan roars, coming up properly alongside the Rig. He’s still atop the car; one of his nobody Warboys is at the wheel and another looms out the window, glaring at Melinda. They’re out in front of most all of the other vehicles, too. “Even now?”

“The only charade is you pretending to love us!” Kara yells, her chin jutted out defiantly (she feels safe in the backseat, safe back here surrounded by her Birdie and Daisy’s undying mother who Melinda trusts enough to lie with).

“My beautiful monster,” the Immortan calls. “My Persephone.”

“Save us the poetry, jackass,” the Mockingbird shouts.

“It’s always been cute when you rebel,” the Immortan says coolly. His terrible mask is on, but the girls can imagine the sneer on his lips (they’ve seen it). “You talk so tough, as if you have any chance of doing anything to me.”

“I have done something to you,” the Mockingbird retorts.

“Nothing you didn’t get back thrice over,” the Immortan says.

“ _Thrice_?” the Mockingbird laughs.

Of course, this repartee has served to allow Turbo to really properly take the wheel so that Melinda can pull a dagger from her brake and climb out of the cab to brandish it.

“Go to hell,” she snarls, lunging for him.

The Immortan laughs darkly and grabs her wrist. “Now I wouldn’t do a thing like that,” he says. “I’ve already taken out a few of you bitches, you freaks, and your little _caramel_ is safe in Crossbones’ arms. I’d hate for him to have to do something to her just because you tried and failed to harm me.”

Kara’s eyes go wide and she clutches at the Mockingbird. “We’ve got to do something!” she squeaks.

And all of a sudden, from behind them comes a low, furious noise, not sounding entirely human. Clumsily, like she’s not sure she can do it but she’s going to try anyway, Daisy projects herself off of the roof of Peg’s car (everyone inside braces for the vibrations) and onto the roof of the Immortan’s. Or, she manages to get near enough to the roof to grab onto the low railing around his roost and pull herself up, wincing all the while. Jemma, who’s still atop Peg’s car, screams with worry, but she pulls the oversized goggles she took from the women’s pile of clothing et al down over her eyes with one hand and trains her gun on the Immortan with the other.

“What in the _fuck_ ,” the Immortan shouts, his attention momentarily diverted from Melinda as he tries to make sense of what just happened.

“Didn’t you ever hear the stories?” Daisy asks, an unmistakable edge in her voice. “The Warboy who sired a child off of one of those _bitches_ , who ripped her out of her mother’s arms to bring her back and be used as a weapon when she got old enough for a _freakish_ gift of her own? Only for the toddler to give him the slip? He must have made a spectacle of him, the old Immortan. The one you consumed.”

“What are you talking about?” the Immortan asks, trying to sound puzzled.

“The first Immortan, the one who gave you that Princess you killed,” Daisy continues. She knows he’s not going to lunge for her until she does first, so the words she’s had unsaid are bubbling up out of her, loud enough for everyone to hear. “And the Warboy who lost his own treasure, got outwitted practically by an _infant_.” She plasters on a smile, the fakest one she’s ever given. “Well, that infant grew into a girl who got taken by you anyway, and you subdued whatever was in her for a while, but now…”

Everyone watching holds their breaths. Melinda silently jabs her blade through the window at the Warboy in the passenger seat, dispatching him, and jerks her head for the stranger to join her and take the wheel. The Warboy in the driver’s seat doesn’t hardly take anything more than a shove to get him out of the vehicle, and once he’s out and rolling on the sand Jemma shoots him in the head.

“Surprise,” Daisy hisses, blasting the Immortan with a wave of energy that nearly knocks him backward off his feet.

 

* * *

 

“You want back in, bitch?” Crusher drawls. “That why you begged us to grab you?”

“I didn’t beg,” Flowers mutters, rolling her eyes venomously like she can’t do anything else. She’s sullen in the passenger seat of the car, another Warboy beside her driving. Crusher guards her from the back seat.

“He’d let you back in,” Crusher continues, stupidly not watching as she fiddles with something under the overlarge blanket-jacket she accepted from the Many Mothers. “Maybe he’d make you earn it, though. Let a couple of us…”

Flowers yanks out the gun Elena gave her and fires, right at the driver’s stomach.

“Trash!” Crusher yells as the other swerves the car.

“Yes you are,” Flowers says.

Crusher takes this as an opportunity to growl and make to choke her out, but after firing at him more than once over her shoulder she uses the leverage to flip over into the backseat beside him and start doing her best to slug him, kick him, shoot him, whatever it takes to get him out. “Whore!” he shouts, punching back, getting her in the arm, the stomach, the side of the head.

“I would never go back to that,” Flowers yells. “I’d sooner die.”

“Then - you - _will_!” Crusher exclaims, breathing heavily as he pulls a knife from his belt. She manages to steal it from him, though, and work to stab him however she can, but he blocks her and punches her and gets her flat on her back. “Just like you like it, huh?”

Flowers doesn’t respond to that with anything but a shout, thrusting the palm of her hand at his jaw to get him startled and then pulling him close like she’s going to kiss him.

“Nasty,” Crusher says, trying not to sound like he’s lost the upper hand.

Flowers bares her teeth and leans in to sink her teeth into his ear, tugging and pulling. His blood fills her mouth, stains her lips, but she manages to bite it clean off, leaving him screaming. “Guess you’re not gonna go out in glory after all,” she hisses, jamming the barrel of her gun under his chin and pulling the trigger.

The other one is already weak enough from blood loss that it’s not too difficult to shoot him, too; his reaction time is surprisingly slow. From there it’s just a matter of hopping back into the front of the car and taking the wheel.

 

* * *

 

“What _power_ ,” the Immortan exclaims, sounding oddly pleased. “If I’d have known -”

“You’d have done whatever you did anyway,” Daisy snarls. “You couldn’t use me all the time, you couldn’t risk me trying to use my own gift to - to - to _fuck you up_.” She sounds a little startled that she managed to speak to him so strongly, but she means it. “Wasn’t worth the chance.”

The Immortan shrugs, trying for bashful. “We could try chancing it,” he says. “I’d be willing to compromise.”

Daisy shrieks and blasts him again, harder this time. “You’re a liar,” she says. “You’re a liar and an abuser. That’s all you are, that’s all you’ve ever been.”

“Mistakes were made,” the Immortan says.

“ _Mistakes_?” Daisy yells. “Falling down and breaking something, letting the water run over in the tub, those are _mistakes_. You murdered one wife to accumulate five more.”

“I didn’t murder my Princess,” the Immortan says. He affects a sympathetic tone. “She was with child, and she miscarried, just like you did. She just wasn’t so lucky as you.”

“I don’t believe you,” Daisy hisses.

“Why do you think I was so upset about what Sparks did to you?” the Immortan asks, reaching a hand out. “I was afraid of losing you that same horrible way.”

“You’d already lost me!” Daisy shouts. “You’d never really had me to begin with! You’ve never had any of us.”

“You’re not _things_ , I know,” the Immortan chuckles. “I saw your graffiti. Very deep, very -” He pauses, reaches out to shove Daisy down and hover over her. “Of course you’re mine. I’ve kept you in luxury, tended to your needs. Daisy, I love you.”

From her perch Jemma shrieks and shoots him in the stomach. “You don’t know what love _is_ , you monster,” she says.

“Giyera!” the Immortan yells. “Disarm her. _Hurt her_.”

From another car behind Peg’s, the Warboy known as Giyera reaches his hand out. The gun starts quivering in her hand and she holds on with all her power, yelping as she does. “Give it up, little girl,” he calls, voice even and menacing. She lets another bullet fly, but he stops this one midair and flings it onto the sand. “Have it your way.” And suddenly one of the bars on top of Peg’s car dislodges and goes to smack her across the middle, knocking the wind out of her.

“Jemma!” Daisy yells, having turned over to see this even if she hasn’t managed to get up yet.

“I’m fine!” Jemma calls back. She doesn’t sound fine at all.

 

* * *

 

Meanwhile, the Rig has slammed into another Warboy vehicle in front of them, one just as big and just as menacing, that had stopped in hopes of causing just that impact. Another Warboy - Crossbones, in fact, looking bloody and menacing as ever, stands at the back, firing bullets toward the Rig.

“Shit!” Kara yelps, clutching the Mockingbird’s hand and ducking.

“He’s just gonna keep at it,” Jiaying sighs. “They all will, until we stop them.”

“Wait,” Kara says suddenly. “I have an idea.”

“What are you doing?” the Mockingbird yelps as Kara climbs toward the front of the Rig and out the busted windshield.

“Crossbones!” Kara shouts, wobbling to her feet on the hood of the car. “Crossbones, take me with you!”

“Kara, no!” the Mockingbird screams.

“I knew it,” Crossbones says, wearing an eerie smile. “I knew you’d come to your senses.” He reaches to pull Kara onto the other car

\- the Mockingbird and Turbo both shouting all the while -

\- and once she’s there, Kara slams her knee into Crossbones’ stomach and moves for the gun he dropped, using it to shoot him three times.

“Skeleton scum,” she spits.

 

* * *

 

Daisy growls, sending the Immortan another blast that catches him under the chin. This one does knock him backward, disorient him into falling right against the spot Melinda’s been perched, waiting for this. They exchange nods, businesslike and almost affectionate in their way.

“Fucker,” Melinda mutters, startling the Immortan into turning around and, with more strength than even she knew she had, ripping his mask off and his jaw with it. His corpse crumples to its knees.

“Melinda!” Daisy squeals. “You’re - he’s -”

“He’s gone and you’re safe,” Melinda says.

“And you’re bleeding!” Daisy exclaims.

“I’m fine,” Melinda replies, rolling her eyes.

Then she, too, falls against the platform they’re standing on, unconscious.

“Melinda needs help!” Daisy shrieks, waving her arms (stiffly - they hurt more than they ever have, but she’s not thinking of it, not now). “She’s hurt!”

Inside Camilla’s car, Elena smirks. “I’ll get her,” she murmurs, practically leaping out the window and speeding to pick Melinda up, put her inside the car that the stranger is currently driving, and return to the ladder on the vehicle she’s been in.

“And Jemma,” Daisy adds. Sure enough, though Jemma’s managed to shoot Giyera and incapacitate him, indeed getting the driver of his car, too, she’s fallen to her knees, in clear pain.

“I’ll get her too,” Elena says, hopping from car to car to pick Jemma up and bring her inside the stranger’s; Daisy clambers down the ladder and inside to be there waiting for her.

“Jiaying, too!” Turbo shouts, gesturing frantically with one hand. “She’s got something speared through her!”

“Shouldn’t she stay?” the Mockingbird asks. “Safe spot in here.”

“She needs to get out,” Turbo says. “And you, too. I’m gonna distract ‘em. Once you’re all in the clear, I’ll blow the Rig. Nobody’ll be able to follow.”

“ _What_?!” Jemma shrills.

“I’ll just cause another rockslide,” Daisy declares, sounding slightly uncertain. “Nobody will have to…”

Turbo shakes his head, smiling sadly. “They’ll just climb over it like they did last time,” he says. “They’re not gonna stop coming for you, even if the Immortan’s dead.”

“Couldn’t you - couldn’t you make it blow without being inside it?” Jemma shouts.

“Birdie, get out,” Turbo says instead, turning to the Mockingbird and nodding solemnly. “Elena, come get Kara and Jiaying.” Because the car in front of them will blow, too, being attached. Before she climbs out, the Mockingbird opens a side door to make it easier for Elena; before she runs and jumps onto the car beside them, holding onto the ladder on its side, she nods solemnly to Turbo.

It’s a blur as Elena moves first Jiaying into the stranger’s car and then Kara, making sure the former is comfortable and giving the latter into the Mockingbird’s arms to hold her close. “We should all get in front of him,” Elena says, gently but loud enough that the stranger, Camilla, and Peg can all hear her.

Nodding, the Mockingbird and Kara climb in the car, the drivers speed up, and the passengers all grab hold of whatever solid object they can.

“Wait!” Kara exclaims suddenly. “Flowers is still out there!”

“Sure am,” Flowers hollers, maneuvering her own commandeered car behind the Rig and to the side of the stranger’s so she can give Kara a little salute.

“Oh!” the other wives all exclaim, delighted and not a bit surprised.

“You heard the plan?” the stranger calls to Flowers, practical as anything.

“Most of it,” Flowers says. “Don’t suppose I could hitch a ride? There’s a couple of corpses stinking this one up.”

It’s the kind of levity they all need, even if it’s not really funny at all, so for a moment the stranger brakes and so does Flowers, and she hops into the passenger seat of his car with ease, leaving the old one behind.

“Okay,” Turbo yells once they’re all a respectable distance in front of him. “Count to thirty.”

Voice shaking, Kara starts. “One. Two. Three.”

“Four. Five. Six,” the Mockingbird joins in, squeezing Kara’s hands.

“Seven. Eight,” Alisha joins in.

“Flowers, take the wheel a moment,” the stranger mutters.

“Of course,” she says, and awkwardly they trade spots so he can stare out the window.

“Ten. Eleven,” Anne and Angel say at the same time.

“Twelve. Thirteen. Fourteen,” Peg adds, squeezing her Angel’s hand.

“Mom!” Daisy finally has a chance to whisper, her eyes wide. “Are you okay?”

“I will be,” Jiaying says, reaching a slightly bloodied hand to Daisy’s cheek.

“Eighteen. Nineteen. Twenty,” and by now Isabelle and Victoria had joined the count as well.

“And Qiaolian - Melinda?” Jiaying asks. “Is she…”

“Knocked out,” Daisy says. “Still barely breathing.”

“We’ll need to have Violet look you both over when we stop,” Jemma says, though she doesn’t turn her gaze.

“Twenty-four. Twenty-five,” Dot and Violet both call.

“You’re all here, though,” the stranger says, sounding solemn.

“We are,” the Mockingbird says.

“Twenty eight. Twenty-nine. Thirty.”

By now, the only ones who aren’t counting are the stranger and Jemma, and neither of them can hear it as Turbo murmurs, “I live, I die, I live again” and crashes the Rig spectacularly. Without seeing it, though, both of them clutch a fistful of air to their heart as they watch him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _¿es que ella está bien?_ ; "is she okay?"  
>  _estás más cerca_ ; "you're closer"
> 
> If you thought the bit with Flowers and Crusher looked familiar, it [was](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=J9WJmRxF0vg).


	25. raise that chest plate proud, got to belt it loud, stir up a fight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Freed of the wreckage, everyone turns their attention to getting their compatriots healed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> medical stuff ahoy.

“It’s done?” Kara asks in a whisper.

“It’s done,” Jemma says hollowly. Her eyes are still fixed on the explosion, the ruins of car upon car upon car, the flames eating at anything that dares cross their path.

“Are you okay?” Daisy asks her.

“I will be,” Jemma murmurs.

Daisy frowns. It’s obvious that Turbo’s self-sacrificing move is hitting Jemma harder than the rest of them, that more than the others she’d gotten fond of the scrawny greasemonkey. It’s also obvious that this is something none of them really have the words for.

They’re still in the Waste, still trekking through the desert, but they finally have the Citadel in sight, distantly but it’s there. There’s no way any soldier boys who mysteriously escaped the fiery culling could sneak up on them. But then, there’s no way anyone could have escaped that. Presumably, it was a spur of the moment decision, blowing up the Rig, and it seemed to have been Turbo’s alone; as ideas went it was deceptively simple, engineerlike in its brilliance.

Maybe that’s what this awful gnawing feeling in Jemma’s chest comes from. She knows she wasn’t in _love_ with the Warboy (suspects she couldn’t ever have been, that he might not have been able to either, truly) because love like that is what she has for her wives, but maybe she could have loved him somehow, like a brother maybe. She’s weighed down with a new, horrible feeling of missed opportunity: Turbo might well have been a good friend, a smart ally, an example of a man who learned not to be awful. A kindred spirit?

And even outside of how they’d have got on, Turbo won’t have a chance to try again. He won’t get to unlearn any more things or rebuild things or help salvage what they can from the world that got killed by the men they were all painfully beholden to. Maybe it’s just that she only _had_ a few hopes up there in the Vault, but the feeling of these new ones being dashed is horrible.

As the cars keep on going, though, Jemma tosses her head back to imitate confidence. She’s upset, but there’s work to be done. She can’t weep for lost chances when there are new important ones to take.

Her wives need her.

“I will,” Jemma repeats, a bit stronger. “Just give it time.”

“All right,” Daisy says.

 

* * *

 

Turbo, the boy -

\- he went down with his ship.

Only the Rig isn’t - wasn’t - a ship, it’s - it was - a battlefield transport, a fortress on wheels.

The Rig is gone and Turbo with it.

The others seem as shellshocked, probably - all of them shivering, sniffling, fretting silently.

It’s comforting, at least, knowing he’s not crazy for feeling this way.

 

* * *

 

“I’m gonna park it here!” Flowers calls out the window. “Melinda and Jiaying need medical help, I don’t think it can wait.”

“Get ready to stop!” the Mockingbird adds, in case the other cars didn’t hear.

Flowers steers her car (it’s bigger and bulkier than _her_ car, of course, what she’s decided is that her old treasured pile of scrap was really more of a glorified dune buggy; she isn’t sure she likes driving something solid and sturdy any better) into a blank patch of desert. It seems like the thing to do, and it’s so out in the open they’re safe.

(None of the Warboys made it through, none of the others. Flowers knows this.)

“Let’s get a tent up!” Akela shouts as she scrambles outside. “It’ll be a little less contaminated than the back of some _pendejo_ ’s car.”

“Ha!” Camilla exclaims. “I’ll stand guard.”

“There won’t be anyone,” Flowers says.

“I’ll stand guard anyway,” Camilla replies.

 

* * *

 

“Give me space,” Jiaying mutters, pushing out of the stopped car. She heads not for the tent the other have started to set up but empty space apart from all of them.

“Mom,” Daisy yells after her, stunned for reasons she can’t quite articulate.

“I’ll be fine,” Jiaying says.

“Do you believe her?” the Mockingbird asks softly.

“No,” Daisy declares. She jumps out and runs after her mother, but before she so much as reaches her, Jiaying grips the spear through her middle with both hands and _yanks_.

“No!” Jemma, still sat in the car until she’s asked for, shouts. By all conventional standards, that shouldn’t end well.

“I’m fine,” Jiaying echoes stubbornly.

All the wives are watching these proceedings with interest: the way Jiaying pulls the spear out like it’s nothing, the way her blood splatters across the sand but her expression barely changes, the way none of the others seem at all anxious about this. It doesn’t make sense that a woman should be able to just drop the offending weapon and shake it off after something like that - but then, it doesn’t make sense that she survived having her throat slit, either, and they all know that happened.

More shyly than she set out, Daisy closes the distance between her and her mother, one (much-bruised) arm reached out. “Do you need… anything?” she asks, sounding confused and alarmed.

Jiaying sounds wanly. “Now it’s just a matter of waiting,” she says. “Shall we sit?”

Daisy blinks. “All right,” she says, and they start toward the tent. “Has that happened? Before?”

“I’ve had injuries that should be fatal, yes,” Jiaying says. “You know that.”

“But like _that_ ,” Daisy presses. “Where it went straight through you.”

Jiaying nods in understanding. “I’ve been stabbed before,” she says. “Once in the gut, even. But never with anything that size or that impaled me.”

“I know you heal,” Daisy says, voice quivering, “but doesn’t it _hurt_?”

“Of course it does,” Jiaying murmurs, frowning.

“Doesn’t it make you want to scream?” Daisy continues. “Being in such pain and just - knowing you have to bear it?”

“I’m used to it,” Jiaying says. “I know it’ll be over with sooner rather than later. I know it’s easier to bear it than to get too upset.” She pauses, looks askance at her daughter. “It would seem you feel the same.”

“Oh, I don’t heal fast at all,” Daisy says with a half-laugh. “I mean, I don’t think so, anyway.”

“And yet here you are,” Jiaying murmurs. “More concerned with the rest of us than yourself, even after you’ve been electrocuted, battered, thrown around, after you lost your child -”

“Lost the monster,” Daisy corrects venomously.

“After you lost the monster you carried, which may have been for the best but still caused undeniable physical trauma,” Jiaying amends. “And after you reached well beyond what I assume you knew to be your physical capacity.”

Daisy shrugs, suddenly demure “I did what I had to,” she says. “I don’t really…”

“Maybe not,” Jiaying says, seeming to understand. “But you did it all anyway and now I can guess that you’re pushing back the pain you feel so you can keep doing what you know is right.”

“I suppose,” Daisy hesitates.

“Are you in pain?” Jiaying asks softly, chancing to lay a hand on Daisy’s wrist (the skin is mottled, purplish, so she thinks she knows the answer).

“Don’t worry about me,” Daisy says. “You’re still...” She waves at Jiaying’s bloodied midsection. “And Melinda, and Jemma, and I'm sure the others…”

Jiaying glances over her shoulder. “Violet is tending Melinda,” she says, “and that doesn’t change anything about your condition. Your arms look like they’ve been fractured.”

“I don’t know much about all that,” Daisy shrugs. “Jemma’s the one who’s the doctor, practically.”

“Would you feel better if she looked you over?” Jiaying asks. “I’m no expert.” Strictly speaking, she’s fairly close to an expert; she’s had enough strange injuries of her own. But she recognizes Daisy’s obstinance and she can guess that Jemma’s opinion will be the thing that clinches the deal (goodness knows there was a time when only Melinda would have been able to tell her to look after herself).

“Maybe,” Daisy says. “I don’t want to interrupt anything, but…” But Jemma is still in the car with their other wives, staying out of the way and trying (not entirely well yet) to seem happier, so there’s probably not much she’d be interrupting.

“I’m sure she won’t mind,” Jiaying soothes.

“Jem!” Daisy calls, then, standing up but not moving away from her mother (that would seem somehow dereliction of duty). “Hey, Jemma!”

“I’ll be right back,” Jemma says to Kara and Flowers and the Mockingbird. “I just want to see what she needs. Maybe she’s ready to get herself treated.”

“Good luck,” the Mockingbird says. In point of fact Daisy’s probable injuries have been one of the subjects they’ve discussed, so they’re all glad to think she might have seen the light, as it were. “You okay to head out?”

Jemma smiles, mostly convincing. “I’ve got my air back, I promise,” she says. “I think I just needed to take a few moments.”

“Well, if you’re sure,” the Mockingbird shrugs, pushing the door open wider.

“Yes,” Jemma chirps. Her first step is hesitant, but that’s just because her foot is asleep from how she was sitting, it’ll wear off in a minute, and she sets her jaw determinedly. Just a bit farther, it’s not hard -

“Jemma!” Kara and Daisy yelp from opposite sides of the scene.

“What’s wrong?” Anne calls from inside the tent.

“She’s collapsed!” Daisy cries.

 

* * *

 

Blankets spread over the ground and a dusty bag of tools aren’t the pinnacle of medical health and cleanliness, but out here, it’s not the worst thing Violet has ever dealt with. The tent is large enough for them to have created three makeshift beds: one for Melinda, who’s still unconscious and being tended by Anne, one for Victoria, whose bandages need retied but not until Melinda is taken care of, and one for whoever else seems to need it (right now Isabelle and Alisha are sitting side by side on it, idly fussing with each other’s injuries). Some of the others - Dot, Elena, Akela, the stranger - are scattered around the periphery of the tent, ready to step in and help if they’re needed; Peg and Angel and Camilla and the wives and Jiaying are hovering around outside, keeping guard or getting air or doing whatever else needs to be done.

“I wish we had a few more supplies,” Violet mutters, rummaging through the bag.

“We don’t, Vi,” Dot replies tersely. “We gotta make do with what there is.”

“I know,” Violet snarks, rolling her eyes. “Do you wanna come over here and keep her from bleeding out?”

Dot holds up her hands defensively. “I put holes _in_ people, not the other way around,” she says. “You worry about the fancy doctor shit.”

Violet scoffs. “It’s not shit.”

“Don’t split hairs,” Dot retorts.

“Both of you, stop,” Anne interjects, glaring. “I understand emotions are running high, but we need to _focus_. Melinda’s breathing is getting shallower by the second.”

“She’s exsanguinating,” Violet murmurs, inspecting Melinda’s wounds. “All the blood is just…”

“There has to be something we can do,” Alisha says.

“Well, we don’t exactly have the equipment for a transfusion,” Violet frets. “I don’t even know if _anyone_ has that anymore.”

The stranger coughs and mumbles something, probably a question.

“What’s that?” Akela asks, turning to him.

“Transfusion?” he repeats, a bit more clearly.

Violet nods. “There’s a dozen things I really should have to perform one,” she says, “but at this point I’d settle for a needle and tubing. Oh, and something to disinfect with.”

“There should be rubbing alcohol still rattling around the car,” Isabelle says, excusing herself to go fetch it (she can tell it’s teetering dangerously close to emotional in here, and she’s never been good at that).

“And you’d need a blood donor,” Anne points out, hands fluttering over Melinda. “Preferably one we know would be compatible, we wouldn’t want to - we wouldn’t -” She has to pause and swallow back the beginnings of tears. “We wouldn’t want to kill her when we’re trying to save her.”

Elena frowns. “How would we even know?”

The stranger clears his throat. “I know,” he says.

“You know _what_?” Victoria challenges. “Don’t tell me you’ve got a special gift for divining people’s blood types.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but it comes out rather more accusatory than that.

“No,” the stranger says, rolling his eyes. “Back _there_ , they’d…” He turns to lift his shirt, show them the messy tattoo on his back that among other things declares him a universal blood donor.

“You don’t _say_ ,” Dot whistles.”

“That still doesn’t solve the problem of equipment, though,” Violet frets.

The stranger almost smirks as he indicates the tubing-and-needle that’s still somehow present inside his clothes. “Guess I’m good for something,” he cracks.

“You’re wonderful,” Violet exclaims. “Anne, you prep Melinda, I’m going to make sure we’ve got him set up as best we can.”

Until both patients have been sufficiently readied, then, the tent is mostly filled with busy, tense silence. Victoria props herself up on her elbows to watch what’s going on, Alisha hurries outside to tell the others what’s happening, Elena makes pillows out of spare jackets, everyone works as they see fit.

Then finally, they’re ready. The stranger comes to sit beside Melinda, one arm stretched out toward the one of hers that’s about to receive his blood, and Violet does the procedure as quick and painless as she can.

“How do we know if it’s working?” Elena asks, frowning.

But before Violet can answer, they hear the girls shrieking outside and it’s back into panic mode.

 

* * *

 

“Clear space,” Anne orders, bidding Alisha to stand and make empty the third bed. All of the wives, plus Jiaying, are packing into the tent, fretting.

“Tell us what happened,” Violet instructs, eyes darting between Melinda, the stranger, and Jemma (unconscious, gathered in the Mockingbird’s arms).

“She was sitting with us in the car, just talking,” Flowers says. “And then -”

“I called her up,” Daisy mutters, sounding disgusted with herself. “I wanted to get her opinion about… but if I’d just been smart enough not to just…”

“It’s not your fault,” Jiaying says immediately. “If she wasn’t feeling well, she’d have swooned no matter why she got up.”

Daisy looks at her mother despairingly. Can’t she see that’s not the point?

“Now, she got hurt in the fight, didn’t she?” Violet asks, looking over Jemma’s prone body. “Is that why there’s all this blood?”

All of the other wives look guiltily at each other. “We don’t know,” Kara admits. “She wasn’t bleeding when we were sitting in the car, or at least that any of us noticed. But then she got up and…”

Violet sighs. “What happened to her during the fight?”

“She, that Warboy who could move things without touching them,” Daisy pipes up, “the Immortan told him to go after her when she started shooting. I didn’t see all of it, but he hit her in the stomach. I know that.”

“She said she’d gotten the wind knocked out of her,” the Mockingbird offers.

“How could she have started bleeding like that and not noticed?” Kara frets.

“Shock, probably,” Violet says. “A rush of adrenaline, since she was so keyed into what was going on and couldn’t let herself miss any of it.”

“Oh, Jemma,” Daisy says sadly, reaching to brush her hair out of her eyes.

“The good news is,” Violet continues, examining Jemma, “the bleeding seems mostly to have stopped. You say she was hit in the stomach?”

Daisy nods. “With a beam on the top of Peg’s car.”

“And did the Immortan know _she_ was pregnant?” Violet asks.

“No,” Daisy says. “She hadn’t told him and neither had anyone else.”

“Then I’m almost positive that Warboy induced her miscarriage,” Violet says grimly. “I suspect he wouldn’t have if he’d known, but given that he didn’t, he may have inadvertently done her a favor.”

“She’s still unconscious,” Kara retorts petulantly.

“Yes,” Violet says, “but she’s breathing evenly, her pulse is steady. The blood likely collected and then spilled when she moved, but it’s not an abnormal amount of blood to be lost in a miscarriage. Right now, I would say it’s a fair bet she just needs a bit of rest.”

“Like I did,” Daisy says.

“Exactly like,” Violet agrees, although she only knows from hearing it. “She’ll be alright.” She brushes her hands together and turns back to Melinda, making a few adjustments in the blood transfusion mechanism before looking for the first time at Daisy. “You said you had called Jemma over?”

Sheepishly, Daisy nods. “I didn’t want to bother you while you were with Melinda, but I… my, Jiaying, she said my arms needed looked at,” she admits.

“While they’re resting, let’s get that done,” Violet says.

* * *

 

 

Maybe, just maybe, he thinks, there’s a point to all of this.

Maybe looking for one means he’s crazy, but that doesn’t matter if he found one anyway.

 

* * *

 

The sun has gone nearly halfway across the sky by the time Melinda wakes.

Daisy’s arms are wrapped in bandages that will serve as casts until something better can be devised, Victoria’s properly stitched up and cleaned up both, Jiaying’s stomach wound has healed almost completely, Jemma’s already woken from her own traumatic sleep with breathy giggles and apologies for causing a scene. The others have all had a chance to have their cuts and scrapes and bruises treated, or as best they can be.

In this way, it’s an oddly contented atmosphere that Melinda wakes to: everyone sitting or reclining about, taking a chance to breathe in the fresh air of what feels like victory, nobody still in too much pain.

“Am I missing something?” she manages to rasp.

“Oh!” Jemma shouts from the makeshift bed beside Melinda. “You’re awake! I - we thought - we worried -”

“You’re awake,” Daisy repeats, eyes shining. Before she can stop herself she leans in to give Melinda half a hug.

“I’m guessing I was out for a while,” Melinda deadpans. “Did we get out all right?”

“It was wicked!” the Mockingbird exclaims. “After you ripped the Immortan’s jaw off it was a free-for-all.”

“Warboys going down right and left,” Alisha declares.

“Finally Turbo decided, he decided, he,” Jemma stammers, waving her hands about.

“He got everyone out of the Rig,” Flowers chimes in, nodding to Jemma, “and he blew it up. Created a massive destructive event.”

“Then we all booked it out here,” Akela finishes.

“Saving you was everyone’s priority,” Jiaying whispers, taking Melinda’s hand. “You were wonderful. You’re a hero to us all.”

“But you were very hurt,” Elena says.

“We’ve been so worried!” Kara squeaks. “But he, the, ah… he _saved you_.”

“Vi saved you,” the stranger demurs. “I just had some of the right blood to help.”

Melinda glances around at all of their faces - her old sisters’ delighted, the wives’ relieved, all of them so different than she’s seen before - and finally settles on the stranger’s, nodding her approval. “Still,” she says, “wasn’t half bad, fool.”

“Mack,” the stranger says, gruff and warm. “My name’s Mack.”


	26. for centuries, we have been at war, but this is where the battle ends and I have won

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The wives et al make their triumphant return to the Citadel and begin, perhaps, to settle into a new world order.

“What’s going to happen now?”  
  
They haven’t talked, they don’t talk much for a while, after they hit the road. Peg and Camilla have once again taken the wheel in their respective cars; the stranger - Mack - he’s still at the wheel in the one they pilfered. Flowers is sat up front in case she needs to take over driving, but there’s no reason she’ll have to and she knows it. Kara and the Mockingbird, Jemma and Daisy fill the middle seats, sprawled about as snugly as they can be, the Mockingbird’s arms around Kara’s waist, Jemma’s head on Daisy’s shoulder. They haven’t really discussed their acts of bravery and attempted sacrifice; there aren’t words, probably. Melinda and Jiaying are just as close in the second set of seats, laid out with Jiaying petting Melinda’s short, short hair and Melinda, momentarily freed of her metal arm, just relaxing and enjoying it.  
  
But finally Kara has to speak, because she’s the most easily scared of them. She doesn’t want to break the spell, but she can’t help it. “What’s going to happen now?”  
  
“What are you wondering about?” Jiaying asks gently.  
  
Kara whimpers in the back of her throat, still shy around the new additions to their group. “All of it,” she finally manages to say. “What do we _do_?”  
  
“It depends,” Melinda admits.  
  
“On what?” Daisy asks, although she thinks she has an idea.  
  
“Reception,” Mack says, glancing over his shoulder. He’s still difficult to read, but he’s one of them now, fully, and they know it, and that helps. “How everyone left behind reacts.”  
  
“You mean like the stray Warboys who didn’t go out on the hunt,” Daisy supposes. “How many were even left?”  
  
The Mockingbird frowns, tracing tiny circles on Kara’s skin. “Most went, wouldn’t it have been? And Mack killed Major Aquarius and his men, when we were out at night,” she says.  
  
“I saw Whitehall’s car flip, too,” Flowers chimes in, reaching to squeeze Kara’s hand. “Dot sniped the driver and another of the Warboy cars rammed them before they noticed who was inside. They all went up in flames.”  
  
“Good,” Kara says darkly. “I hope he suffered horribly.”  
  
It was probably a fairly quick death, in point of fact, but there’s no reason to take the pleasure of his hypothetical suffering away from Kara, so Flowers doesn’t. Instead she says, “And I bit Crusher’s ear off before I shot him dead, so.”  
  
“I ended Giyera, when he was trying to end me,” Jemma puts in, shy almost.  
  
“I got Crossbones,” Kara says, and the Mockingbird nods along proudly.  
  
“‘Tween Alisha and us, Hellfire struck out,” Daisy offers.  
  
“We all saw the Immortan go under,” Melinda says, too calm, “and the bottom of his jaw’s in the back of the car. We’ve got proof of what happened.”  
  
“We’ll be able to show them he’s dead,” Jiaying says, like she’s making sense of it.  
  
So really,” the Mockingbird says, just a bit caustic, “as long as the Organic Mechanic doesn’t lead the War Pups in a misguided rebellion, we’re golden.”

 

* * *

  
  
“They’re returning!” they hear one of the Pups shout, voice carrying across the cavern. His fellows, the Warboys who got left behind for injuries or illnesses, the non-militarized citizens of the Citadel, they all echo, creating a great ominous murmur that surrounds them as they drive up.  
  
“Take us up to the front,” Melinda instructs.  
  
So Mack does. He drives the car they stole through the crowd of the Wretched, the dyingest half-life Warboys who straggle out, and he parks in front of the giant entrance to the garage.  
  
“Where’s the Immortan?” another Pup calls, setting off another roar.  
  
Inside the car, the women all look at each other. There’s no escaping the truth now. “I’ll take the hit,” Melinda offers. “Àirén, help me out?”  
  
Jiaying nods, and careful especially of Melinda’s injuries she opens the door and helps Melinda search in the back of the car, then steadies her as she climbs out, up onto the roof. Her metal arm is still in the car; its different bracings and straps would interfere with her bandages, of which there are many. She looks a sight: one eye swollen nearly shut, blood and cuts gracing nearly every bit of exposed skin, barely alive.  
  
“It’s the Imperator!” someone in the crowd shouts, pointing, and soon half of the others are pointing too, awed and confused and who knows what else.  
  
“Imperator is a title that someone else gave me!” Melinda shouts, surprisingly loud. “That someone else was the Immortan. The Immortan is dead!”  
  
She raises the gruesome remains of Immortan Ward’s jaw high as she can. His infernal mask is still attached, and everyone, even the youngest amongst the Wretched, knows he’d never have parted with that willingly. So if the jaw has the mask and the Imperator has the jaw…  
  
“Did you kill him, Imperator?” someone else shouts, sounding equal parts titillated and frightened.  
  
“My name is not Imperator,” Melinda about growls, steadying herself with her stump against the railing. “My name is Melinda Qiaolian, and the so-called redeemer Immortan Ward is dead by my hand.”  
  
Another wave of vehement whispering rushes through the crowd, and inside the car, Kara squeaks, “Are they going to kill her?”  
  
“They haven’t got the means,” Flowers says softly. “The Wretched haven’t got weapons or hardly even enough energy to murder someone, the Warboys lack the leadership they’d need to stage a coup.”  
  
“But do they _want_ to?” Kara presses.  
  
“I’m not sure,” Jemma murmurs, pressing her nose to the glass.  
  
“The Immortan is dead,” Melinda continues outside, voice still raised. “The Immortan is dead, Major Aquarius from the Bullet Farm is dead, Whitehall of Gas Town is dead. Any of their soldiers that chased after us are dead. Gone up in flames.”  
  
From the ledges, somewhere behind the War Pups with their bellowing drums, someone shouts, “Why’d you do it?”  
  
Impulsively, Daisy scrambles out of the car and goes to join Melinda on the roof. “Kill or be killed,” she says. “Those men used us. They’ve used all of us in different ways.”  
  
As the crowd roars again, Jemma climbs out, holding tight to any ledge she can. “Whether it was breeding or labor or battle fodder, or just flat proof of their own superiority,” she continues, “we’ve all been nothing but props in their great game.”  
  
“We’re giving you a choice,” Melinda calls, not quite improvising but not saying anything they’ve explicitly discussed, either.  
  
This incites yet another roar. A choice? They know what that means, of course, but it sounds so foreign.  
  
“This Citadel was controlled by the worst of men,” Melinda continues, and at this point her voice is starting to sound a bit hoarse, but she’s pressing on. “The sort who’d hurt anyone they had to just to get what they wanted.”  
  
The Mockingbird steps out of the car, looking straight into the crowd. She’s not afraid of the Wretched, she once belonged to their ranks. “The sort who’d hurt anyone because they found it amusing, too,” she adds.  
  
“Who took people in but only to have leverage,” Kara chimes in, joining the Mockingbird, “who’d discard them at the slightest provocation but fight like hell to get them back if they tried to run.”  
  
“We tried to run,” Melinda yells. “We’d had enough. But…”  
  
Flowers steps out of the car, her own expression oddly serene in contrast to the other women’s. “But what good is there running toward nothing if there’s something that needs fixed,” she concludes, smiling. Of course they didn’t return to the Citadel just to fix things, but they’re here now and it seems the only course of action to pursue.  
  
“Immortan Ward and his Warboys and his allies are all dead,” Melinda reiterates. “The Citadel is for the taking, and we intend to take it.”  
  
“This is not a grab for power,” Jemma shouts, earnest and wide-eyed.  
  
“This is simply us taking nominal charge of something that should belong to everyone,” Flowers adds. “And it will.”  
  
“We’re taking the Citadel, but from here on, anything it has to offer belongs to anyone who needs it,” Melinda announces. “Food, water, shelter - anything that by rights you should be given, you’re free to take.”  
  
The crowd erupts with roars again, surprised and - dare say? - happy. “That’s not a trick?” one of the pale, ill Warboys calls out.  
  
“That’s not a trick,” Melinda agrees. “The Citadel will be as it should always have been. Ours, not just his.”  
  
As a round of applause breaks out, Jiaying steps out of the car to be closer to Melinda and to her daughter; a Warboy silently bids Mack to drive forward and onto one of the great platforms they use to haul rigs in and out of the garage, and, mindful of the women all clinging to the car, he follows.  
  
“Melinda queen!” shouts an old woman in the crowd.  
  
Melinda blinks. She wasn’t expecting anything remotely like that to happen, somehow.  
  
“I’m not your queen!” Melinda yells, startled. “I don’t ask for your adulation or praise, only your respect as a peer and your trust as we rebuild.”  
  
“Melinda queen!” another voice calls, and the phrase starts to drift through the crowd, tried out on each tongue in turn.  
  
“This isn’t what I intended,” Melinda hisses.  
  
“It’s what you’ve got,” Jiaying murmurs, grinning. “I think it suits you.”  
  
“It does,” Daisy agrees, grinning.  
  
“Melinda queen! Melinda queen!” It reverberates through, and all of the wives and all of the other women (who drive their cars onto the same platform cautiously) beam.  
  
“Goin’ up?” the aging - former? - Warboy at the pulley wheel asks.  
  
“Nowhere else to go,” Melinda says with a smirk.  
  
As they’re starting to get lifted into the air, all of the women stepping out of their cars and clinging to their partners with smiles, Melinda glances down to survey the crowd. Hundreds of faces she’s never had the energy to really regard until now, hundreds of souls she might be able to do something to help, her and the others, and -  
  
There’s Mack, walking through the crowd.  
  
He turns back just in time to meet her eye, and he salutes.  
  
He actually salutes.  
  
“Where’s he going?” Daisy asks, frowning.  
  
“Dunno,” Melinda says. “But I’m sure he’ll be back.”

 

* * *

   
  
“You planning to make me one of these?” Isabelle teases, helping buckle Melinda’s arm in place.  
  
“You’ve never asked,” Melinda replies smoothly, smirking.  
  
“And if I did?” Isabelle presses.  
  
“We could figure something out,” Melinda says. “Why? You interested?”  
  
“Maybe,” Isabelle replies, shrugging. “It wouldn’t hurt to have, just in case, but I’ve kind gotten used to doing everything one-handed.”  
  
Behind her, Victoria smirks. “It’d be terribly kind of you,” she says dryly, “but don’t rush. There’s a lot else to do first.”  
  
Isabelle rolls her eyes, laughing. “Thank you for the advocacy,” she retorts.  
  
“You don’t need anyone’s help and you know it,” Victoria replies curtly. “You’ll be fine.”  
  
“They’re always like this,” says Anne, smiling fondly.  
  
“Where’s the tour starting?” Angel asks, glancing around the garage. She doesn’t look at all in her element, but they all know better.  
  
“Well, up here is where we all worked and slept,” Melinda says. “Working in here, sleeping down the way. And all our living was scattered between.”  
  
“Can we see the gardens?” Alisha asks, eyes wide.  
  
“They’re up top,” Melinda replies with a smirk, “but we’ll get there. First we’ve gotta -”  
  
The women head out into the corridor, some more quickly than others, the wives behind all the rest; they’re all chattering and curious, listening to Melinda’s explanations of things, when from behind them, inside an open doorway, comes a welcome, familiar voice. “ Girls?”  
  
“Miss Rose!” all of the wives exclaim, grinning, running toward their old guardian and swarming her with hugs.  
  
“We thought for sure you’d be… well,” Jemma murmurs, trying not to cry.  
  
“Did he hurt you?” Daisy asks.  
  
“Miss Rose,” Kara says, “we went all the way out and then we came all the way back and the Immortan is dead! Melinda killed him.”  
  
“I heard her speech,” Rose says. “I’m very proud of her and of all of you.”  
  
“Miss Rose,” the Mockingbird says, “you’ll never believe who we found.”  
  
“I met my mother!” Daisy exclaims. “She’s Melinda’s old - well, her everything, really. And the other women from their home! The Green Place is gone, but they aren’t.”  
  
“And they met up with some other wanderers,” Flowers adds, smug. “All of you, stop taking your tour for a bit and come over.”  
  
Melinda pauses, and the other women stop following her, turning to see the commotion. In just a moment, then, it seems like the four oldest women rush over, laughing and crying all at once.  
  
“We knew they couldn’t take you down,” Dot says fondly.  
  
“You’re just as brave as ever,” Violet declares.  
  
“Hey, Rosie,” Angel murmurs fondly, leaning to kiss her cheek.  
  
“You’re a real hero,” Peg announces.  
  
“So this is Rose,” Jiaying says smoothly, smiling. “I’m Jiaying. I’m Melinda’s everything, really, and Daisy’s mother. That's Akela, and Elena, and Alisha, and Anne, and Victoria, and Isabelle, and -”  
  
“I want all of the introductions very soon,” Rose says. “In fact, I want to know everything.”  
  
“We drove all across the desert!” Kara exclaims.  
  
“And we made friends with a renegade bloodbag and the Warboy he’d been attached to, who turned out not to be so bad after all,” Daisy says.  
  
“He lost his life to save us, so we could all get through,” Jemma murmurs.  
  
“We had to get through, you see,” the Mockingbird declares, “because this is a Green Place, really. There’s things that grow and water to help them and everything anyone could need, and we’re going to share it.”  
  
“I’m having visions again,” Flowers announces. “And I’ve gotten to drive a car. I’d like to do more of that.”  
  
“Anne has been teaching us all about the history of things,” Jemma says, nodding to said woman. “I’d like to help her do that, teach it and learn it and share it, so we all know.”  
  
“I’m going to learn how to fight, really fight,” Daisy says, “and I’m going to learn what I can from my mother about people that have gifts like us. I’m going to use my gift to help people.”  
  
“I want to take care of people,” Kara says. “The sad, lost ones down on the sand, who need tenderness.”  
  
“And I can help Melinda defend her territory, now she’s our queen,” the Mockingbird adds.  
  
“There is a kind of poetry about that,” Rose says, “Melinda as our queen.”  
  
“She’s going to do a wonderful job,” Daisy exclaims.  
  
“I’m going to try my best, anyway,” Melinda says warmly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when I started writing and posting this I honestly did not mean for it to have such intensely relevant timing. But this is the world we live in, so here we are.  
> I know writing elaborate feminist femslash AU fanfiction doesn't really do a whole lot in the large scheme of things, but I like telling the stories I tell and I hope you like reading them and I hope you appreciate them for what they are and what they represent in a social and emotional way. If nothing else, I hope that my elaborate feminist femslash AU fanfiction might inspire something in the people reading it, and in the case of this particular piece I hope that something is a spirit of emotional agency and noncompliance.  
> Now in these trying times especially, it is important to remember:  
>  _ **We are not things.**_


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